A Quarter Can't Make Me Quarter You
by ComicRoute
Summary: DIS- It was the late 1700's, and Alfred could not understand why Parliament couldn't at least ask before they shoved a random redcoat to live in his tavern. Where was the justice in that - and how could he make it just? But maybe things would work out – okay, probably not, considering colonists hated those lobster backs and Alfred was a (unsure) patriot, but hey, optimists existed.
1. Hospitable Justice

**Some believe that justice means fair treatment to all - but what does that say for itself, when the action to begin with wasn't just?**

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><p>The French and Indian War was done, so why, on God's great green earth, was there a soldier standing on his porch step?<p>

Dressed in official red and white and standing as proper as one could possibly stand while about to intrude on a stranger's life, the British soldier presented himself. Alfred had always thought that redcoats were scornful and arrogant and plain rude, but that wasn't the way the other seemed to act. No, even though his face was impassive and he did not look about to shine Alfred's feet and ramble apologies, he did not exactly fit that stereotype.

"I'm sure you've received the letter of my staying here," the soldier stated, not at all asking a question or suggesting to a question but being rather sure of himself that Alfred had received a letter and no matter what, the soldier would be staying there. Alfred could not decide whether or not he liked that.

"I have," Alfred said briefly, looking back over his shoulder to spot his wife, Elizaveta, running a rag through her hands and squinting curiously at him. She was standing at the corner of the bar table, looking unsure of whether to dash through the door around back, where the liquor was all kept, or to stay and see what was the sudden fuss. There was no one new that required anyone having to go and meet them at the door. It was, well, a tavern, after all.

"Is there a problem?" she finally said, walking up to the door, and Alfred pressed the door back in order to allow her room to get a good look at the stranger.

The redcoat was good looking, that was an immediate understanding. He had large eyebrows that were attractive on his angular face and calloused features, pale skin that ran the rain off like porcelain, and dangerously glinting green eyes. His lips were pale, probably from the cold and having had to walk to the tavern without any sort of cover. He nodded respectfully towards Elizaveta and held out a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones," the British soldier greeted.

Elizaveta gave him a suspicious once over and did not take his hand. "And you are?" she said, blatantly ignoring the way the man seemed to obviously sense her hostility and didn't even look as if it were something new when he dropped his hand.

"Arthur Kirkland, of the royal British Army, at your service," Arthur said, still keeping his emotionless demeanor and offering the slight bow of his head.

Alfred shot his wife a glance, one that she returned with the slightest hint of confusion. Looking over Arthur again, she stood back. "I assume you're here to remain?"

"Yes, if you will have me," Arthur answered back without hesitance.

Elizaveta tilted her chin up the most miniscule amount, turning around to return to her bar table and stiffly wiping it down. "As if our consent was given," she muttered bitterly under her breath, but it seemed to be only Alfred that heard.

Alfred's attention darted back to the British officer, and while he was looking the man up and down for any signs of ill intent or telltale clues of his character, it seemed that Arthur was doing the same. It was an interesting new discovery for him to note. Often, the stereotypical redcoats he had come across – he had to get his stereotypes from somewhere, after all – examined him as inconspicuously as possible, but it appeared as if Arthur did not believe in that rule. In reality, he had seen Alfred view him with open suspicion, and to that Arthur considered it fair to return the favour. When he looked back up from eyeing Alfred's brown vest and long sleeved button-down, Alfred was staring at him with the smallest gesture of surprise.

"Well, come in," Alfred finally said, standing back and watching as Arthur slowly made his way inside. Apart from a drunkard displayed on a cushion in the corner and Elizaveta sorting out various bottles on the shelves beneath the table, there wasn't much to see. It was an average tavern, with average owners.

Alfred walked away from the door, shutting it softly closed and approached the staircase mounted against the fair right wall. Arthur's eyes darted towards Alfred's moving body, and for a moment it looked as if Alfred were going upstairs, but instead, he veered away. Alfred began walking around the staircase, to the back of it, and opened a door. Arthur went to join him.

"An old shed," Alfred explained as he held the door open once more and the two of them walked into the dimly lit room. The only light was given from the various cracks in wooden boards serving as walls, letting in the daylight, yet for some odd reason not letting in the rain. There, however, was a right chill presented. "We don't use much of it anymore, since the liquor is kept downstairs, so this is where you'll be staying. Elizaveta will provide you with blankets and supplies."

Arthur frowned, the first expression Alfred had seen on him. "And winter?"

Alfred paused, rolling his bottom lip in. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there," he offered briefly, watching as Arthur walked around, toeing odd objects that had been neglected but without them the room would be eerily empty. Alfred then, without another word, left the shed connected to the house and entered the main tavern room. He was given the sight of a very displeased wife.

"And when, exactly, were you going to tell me we'd be housing a redcoat?" she demanded, expression of oppressed livid emotion and words a harsh whisper in case the man in question could hear.

"I never found it a good time to bring the subject up!" Alfred offered in defence, lifting his hands as if to shield himself from Elizaveta's anger and speaking in the same intense whisper as she had. She narrowed her eyes and turned her head to look at the wall.

"Right, well, any time would have been better than now – being spontaneously presented with a strange man that I'm told I should provide for isn't my idea of a good evening," Elizaveta said, posture stiff and guarded. "I haven't gotten anything prepared for his living here, either."

"Call it the hospitality of a patriot," Alfred retorted, being shot a nasty look for his comment. He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, cowlick peeking between his ring finger and pinky. "It might be a good idea to become prepared a little quicker; he's sort of just waiting over there for the blankets and supplies I told him you'd bring."

Elizaveta's eyes widened momentarily as she shot off the counter and glared at him, running up the stairs to find said blankets and supplies. "What even made you think that a shed was an ideal place?" she shouted back down at him from the top floor. "It's ice in the winter!"

"What is up with everyone already thinking about winter? It's September!" Alfred shouted back, slouching his shoulders dejectedly.

God damn redcoats.

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><p>Alfred eyed his friend from his seat on the bar stool.<p>

The albino Prussian had his hands in the air, and had it been another time, Alfred would have been quick to point out how Italian those gestures could have been passed off as. However, it was not the time, as the man, named Gilbert, had come with another story fetched from his house in the rumoured New York City. Tensions there with the British soldiers had been mounted high, and to think that Gilbert was against being with the British before that brought perspective into the pigment-lacking man's plight.

"I'll say!" exclaimed a feminine voice, and Alfred's eyes darted over the table to see Elizaveta throw down Gilbert's requested, as per usual, beer. It was a surprise the drink did not break, considering that Alfred was aware of the woman's shocking amount of strength. "Not so much as a consent asked for, or a, "May I please be quartered here for something or another because my superiors are oppressing little bastards?" No! They simply march in, and let me tell you, had I been asked beforehand, my hospitality would be much more hospitable!"

Alfred's teeth grit. He could feel the frustration radiate off of his wife and the drunken anger of Gilbert himself. Even Francis, a Frenchman who had made his living in Boston a few years before and became fast friends with the three, who was still mostly sober, could be seen with his eyes narrowed. It was less anger at the act than it was at what they all felt to be unjust treatment, a precedent for what could come. Yet, as much as Francis seemed unsettled, he lifted his chin and spoke. "It isn't as if they're kicking us from our bedchambers, though. All I hear of is the soldiers living in their own tents, or in inns and occasionally barns. What private home houses a soldier at this moment?"

"Oh?" retorted Elizaveta immediately, "and this is a tavern; what say you of that?"

Before Francis could respond, or even so much as register what the woman had said, Gilbert had practically fallen off of his stool and raised one arm in the air holding his glass of liquor. "There is a redcoat in this building?" he shouted, perhaps too loudly for a Thursday night. Some more sober customers stilled at Gilbert's outburst. "I say we show him the meaning of just!"

There were a few shouts of acknowledgement and agreement from the formerly stilled crowd, but before Gilbert could get out another word, Elizaveta barked. "I say you don't stir up trouble!"

"He's found his comfort in this tavern, and you tell me you want no trouble? We haven't given him any trouble, only him to you," Gilbert roared.

"He has given me no trouble, only discontent and frustration!" Elizaveta told back at a matching volume, silencing the stirring people before them and causing Gilbert to crash back onto his stool. Clearing her throat, she continued, "you sit right there and quit it. I don't like having to be forced to provide, but I won't shed any blood for something so mundane. You hear?"

"Mundane?" Gilbert spat, "mundane, my ass! You sound just like the fucking loyalists."

Elizaveta's eyes flared, but before she could go on, Alfred intercepted, and his voice was low and almost quiet compared to the noise around them. "There are no loyalists in this group, and you are well aware. She is the woman of this place and you will treat her wishes with respect," he said, and before Gilbert could protest added, "I want him out. I want nothing more than him to be out, as he is an unwelcome addition. He is a stranger, and I only know of his name and his place, but he has risen for us no extra trouble."

"Maybe he hasn't, but others have," Gilbert growled in return. It almost appeared as if his slight drunken effects had gone away by the forced thought and sudden conflict.

"Give trouble to those who give trouble," quipped Francis, but Gilbert only glared.

"You're all idiots," he spat, rising from his seat and stumbling off a few steps. "If we wait for conflict in order to show them who's boss, then no matter what - they always get the first shot."

The door swung closed behind him, but it did nothing to seal Alfred's own inner conflicts, for Gilbert was right - so what was Alfred doing just sitting there and allowing a British soldier access to only their 'finest' hospitality and for nothing in return? Maybe it was Parliament's fault, but it must have been the soldier's too, right? After all - the soldiers were the ones who must have been enforcing it.

But what of justice? What of it?

And what was Alfred doing, thinking of justice?

For what justice was there in the British man's actions?

Gilbert was right; that deserved no justice in return. And they were not going to get the first shot.

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><p><strong>AN: After starting a multi-chapter fan fiction with my girlfriend, I was plunged in a writing mood that would not leave. Unfortunately, it created this terrible first chapter of an unsure and not fully planned fic.**

**In any case, I plan on finishing it, whether it's bad or not! But not today. The heat outside is killing me, and it's time to go get killed by raging World Cup fans.**

**NOTE: Yes, Hungary is America's wife, but this is _not _America x Hungary. I just love Hungary, and this is in a time where planned marriages were a must, and Alfred is past the age where he would normally get a planned marriage shoved his way. **

**I want to see what you guys think and look forward to, so as always, please read and review! **

**EDIT:**

_I should really stop assuming everyone knows about this part in history. Gah. For those non-Americans out there, in 1765, the British Parliament passed a law saying that British soldiers in the colonies were to be given shelter in barracks provided by the colonies. IF in the case that the barracks ran out of space, then the British soldiers were to be held in inns. If inns ran out, then they were to be held in other public places, and in some cases, that stretched to having them live in barns. In Boston, they set up tents to live in. This was called the **Quartering Act.**_

_New York refused to put up with the Quartering Act, and so Parliament put extra pressure on them to accept it with various laws restricting what New York could do until they did. Tension was especially high between colonists and soldiers there and mostly in Boston, where street brawls commonly broke out. The brawls eventually led to the **Boston Massacre, **where five colonists were killed because British soldiers misunderstood orders and shot into a gathering crowd (that was throwing rocks and such at them and insulting them). _

_In common American understanding, there are images of colonists being practically thrown out of their beds by redcoats (which was a nickname for British soldiers) in order to make room for British soldiers - however, that isn't true! During the time, American colonists were mostly mad about the fact that they weren't being asked in any way if they could provide for a soldier, which led to frustration and in turn exaggeration of the events and only made colonist anger with Great Britain grow. After the Boston Massacre, it was the point of no return. _

**_Francis = After a handful of years, the Quartering Act was enforced and for different reasons, and laws such as the Stamp Act forced colonies to pay taxes for every day things. The colonists called these taxes and laws the Intolerable Acts. However, this was a new deal for the colonists because they had not been made to pay such taxes before. Being so far away from Great Britain, they were pretty much left to their own lifestyles, and had learned to be self independent from the government (letters took months to reach Great Britain). Therefore, these taxes were, in their eyes, intolerable - just as the name. BUT _over in Europe, taxes on citizens living in mainland Great Britain paid FAR /MORE/ taxes than the colonists did. Therefore, Francis - being from France, clearly, and used to the taxes on British citizens - doesn't believe that these laws and taxes are such a big deal. **


	2. Sonder

**And then there is the realisation that every person on the street is living a life as complex, with as many twists and turns and ups and downs - a life as vivid as yours, and you pass by one with every step you take.**

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><p>Alfred had no idea what he was supposed to do.<p>

Clearly, he had to show soldier Kirkland what the consequences were like when forcing oneself upon someone else's life without their permission, but alas, there was nothing he could honestly do. Give the man a lecture? Right.

Aside from that, though, Arthur was rarely even around. In the mornings, if he didn't awaken before Alfred had, then they ran into each other briefly at the same time. Alfred would normally be tethering his horse, having just rode from his and Elizaveta's home just barely on the outskirts of the city, when Arthur would walk out. Whereas Alfred was wide awake from having rode in the swiftly approaching winter cold and would expect Arthur to still be groggy, that was in no way the case. No, Arthur would stride out the front door and shut it softly behind him, greeting Alfred with a blank face and a nod of his head and the only thing Alfred saw of him was his retreating back down the street.

Alfred had made no efforts to talk to him more frequently.

Why should he? It was clear that he disliked the man, and it was even more clear that the man was perfectly used to that. In fact, Alfred had the light suspicion that Arthur was avoiding Alfred for just that reason, for the Brit would only return when the sun had set and the tavern was already bustling with drunkards and Elizaveta was busy serving food while Alfred was busy with the drinks. Alfred had once briefly considered why Arthur never stayed out later, but it was apparent one night when the man stumbled in a few hours after it had gotten dark.

A bruise was freshly blossoming on his cheekbone, and one eye was shut tight for a reason that Alfred could not spot. He was limping ever so slightly, but clearly holding up the best facade he could that his walking abilities were perfectly fine. Alfred attempted shooting his wife a curious glance, to see if the man's new attire had also caught her attention, but her back had been turned as she cleaned up a mess of shattered glass.

Then, Arthur garnered Alfred's eye with his own, and they stood for a stretching split second in that way - eyeing each other with one point guard and another point shock.

With that entrance, however, he had stood there long enough to be noticed as a roar erupted from a corner table and an intoxicated man stood. "Arthur!" slurred the man, and Alfred obviously noted the glaring bright red coat draped over the back of the man's chair. "Come join us, my private!" his eyes were then squeezed shut as something was said from the other end of the table, though it was quiet enough that Alfred could not hear, and he nearly bent over backwards as his throat vibrated with laughter.

From the corner of his vision, Alfred could see Arthur wince and retreat into an extra room in the far back. It was still a fairly cold room, but had better warmth insulation than the shed, and Elizaveta had offered it up only two days after Arthur had arrived. It was normally given to lodging travellers, in which case things in the tavern were locked up better and one of them slept in the single bedroom upstairs, but Elizaveta was adamant that Alfred not start living in the tavern and instead locked up all possessions as best as she could, claiming that Arthur could not do anything ill tended when he was living there.

Alfred had to pause as his thoughts took that memory turn. The Englishman had all but left his mind for the longest of times, yet starting a few days back when Gilbert had once again left for New York City after his brief visit in town, Arthur was constantly on his mind. The soldier was more of a stranger than anyone seemed to give him credit for, and when Alfred mentioned that to his wife one night while laying under the covers, she shot him an irritated glance at so much pointing out the other man's existence. "I know he's a stranger, and I don't want to be reminded of how strange that can be," she had curtly responded, turning her back on him in favour of staring at the wall.

Sighing, Alfred urged his horse on. The sun was already peeking over the horizon, and he was both exhausted and chilled down to the bone. Yet, right then, he could almost feel his anger grow. It had settled down from the blind rage and hatred that had occurred during Gilbert's visit, leaving Alfred to be slightly calmed by Francis as the man packed for Boston. However, being angry was, in his opinion, better than being unsure. It rose from what Elizaveta had said. Arthur was a strange man, and Alfred did not know quite how strange. It brushed against his nerves, knowing that he was letting a man he did not know around his family. Alfred and Elizaveta were planning for a child in the spring, unwilling to subject it to the uncertain winter's wrath, and Alfred could not imagine anything that would draw Arthur away from his home between right then and spring. Elizaveta was already late enough, compared to the other families he knew, for baring a child.

He breathed out into the cold autumn air, watching as his breath was just slightly made visible in front of him, as he entered the more crowded streets of the New Jersey city. Alfred glanced up, having half a mind to expect a red coat just appearing from the tavern's front door, but at the sight of the still street Alfred knew Arthur had already left.

He tethered his horse and welcomed himself inside. Elizaveta and him often took turns between weeks of who would be the one to wake up early to tend to the tavern and who would sleep in and watch over the home, only to join the other later in the night. The one who woke up latest would be the one to stay the latest and clean up after the day. That week, it was Alfred's turn, and he was happy to be silently welcomed into the clean tavern.

Mostly clean tavern.

Immediately, he froze at the door, distantly registering that the door swung closed behind him, but making no move to shut it all the way. There was a figure hunched over the bar table, bottom just barely on the stool, when there should not have been. Just before one of them was about to retire the tavern for the night, they always woke whoever had remained and kicked them out if they were sober or shooed them to the upstairs bedroom, which was completely plain at all times, where they were sure to sleep long after the tavern awoke again. That night, there had been no remaining drunkard, and it was unusual for a soldier to be late in a tavern at all for a Tuesday night - for that was, most definitely, a red coat lying on the floor.

And that was most definitely a mop of messy blonde hair lying on the table.

Flipping the sign on the window that told the world the tavern was open, Alfred stiffed and took a deep breath, walking forward with as sure of steps he could muster after a horse ride so early in the morning. He took a seat beside the unconscious figure of Arthur, and at that moment, could find not an ounce in him that was angry at having the trust of the man to not touch or stir any liquor or belongings of the tavern betrayed. It was certainly a strange feeling, Alfred could only think, to not be so quickly angered at the man's presence and the distinct smell of scotch wafting from an empty cup sideways on the table.

The rising sun began brightening the room, highlighting the back of the redcoat, and Alfred only suddenly noted that it was the first time he had ever seen him without his red coat.

Arthur looked so different like that. Without the rank of his place, the mark of his loyalties, just a stripped man of all things the society outside could possibly use against him in the split second they saw.

Alfred really knew not a thing about him, and that was his repeated realisation as, could it be minutes or hours later, Arthur began to stir with the stirring movements on the street outside.

Alfred braced himself for the reprimanding he was about to offer, for the lecture and the slow catching up Arthur would have to do to understand what was happening as he opened his mouth and said, "are you alright?"

Oh. Well, that was certainly not what was supposed to come out.

There was silence, the tavern suspended in time, until Arthur carefully slid his head against the wood until it was in a position where he could blink open his eyes and stare up at the other man. He opened his mouth, but it seemed that it was too early and sudden for him to be able to make a sound, and after licking his lips with his dry tongue and swallowing, clearing his throat, he went, "pardon me?"

Alfred lifted his chin the slightest amount, sub-consciously attempting to distance himself from the calculating gaze of the Englishman. It did not seem at all as if he was dealing with a hangover until the other man's jaw stiffened and he gave a soft groan. "You wanted a drink enough that you snuck it from one of the downstairs barrels," he stated matter-of-factly, "why?"

Alfred was about to wait for an answer, until Arthur's eyes squeezed shut and one hand lifted to rest against his temple. Realising what was happening, Alfred stood up and grabbed a bucket from behind the table, jogging through the back door and turning on the outside faucet. Bringing the bucket back in, he grabbed a glass and dunked it into the liquid, lifting it out and setting the dripping cup beside the soldier. Alfred filled another glass for safety's sake, before dropping the empty scotch glass into the still half full bucket and had a rag join it, beginning to quickly scrub it clean of alcohol.

Arthur lazily reached out and grasped the glass of water tightly, slowly pulling it towards him before cautiously taking a sip, careful to not disturb his sudden migraine. Minutes passed like that, Alfred idly wondering if his question would be answered and Arthur absentmindedly sipping at his water, before his sips turned to gulps and he was suddenly reaching for his second glass. Finishing his impromptu cleaning, Alfred moved to the stove, figuring that Arthur was undoubtedly hungry. Arthur was technically a roommate, after all, and Alfred at that moment was only mildly annoyed knowing that Arthur would never be paying for any of the services he was being given.

"I truly apologise," Arthur spoke up, finally, as Alfred was finishing up with his scrambled eggs and bread that the colonist only hoped wasn't already stale. Alfred hummed for Arthur to continue. "I wasn't intending to steal, nor was it in my wishes to intrude upon you and your wife's livelihood," Arthur said, tone bitter, and Alfred was surprised to find that the bitter voice was not directed to him but rather, Arthur himself.

"You're not intruding on our livelihood," Alfred said, before he could stop himself. Yes, he was. But Alfred could only realise one thing as he stared down at the spitting eggs, registering in his mind Arthur's self-loathing tone and Alfred's own assurance.

Arthur thought he was a loyalist, didn't he?

"I'll pay for every ounce," Arthur went on. "I must have had quite a few drinks. I'll pay for a dozen."

Alfred's eyes widened. A dozen hard glasses? There was no way Arthur could afford to spend that much, what with a soldier's salary and the very likely assumption that most of his money was sent back to England. But refusing to betray his doubts, Alfred dished the breakfast onto a clean plate and slid it across the table. Arthur blinked down at it, before squinting curiously at Alfred. "What is this for?"

"Your mother," Alfred deadpanned, watching as Arthur searched his eyes for signs of a trick, before shaking his head disbelievingly and accepting the fork he was offered.

"I'll pay for this, too," he assured as he ate, but his tone was hesitant, as if only just then wondering how he was to pay for it.

Alfred cleared his throat, causing Arthur to look up, albeit abnormally slow as he was fighting off his headache. "I'll say you had one drink if you say why you had it," he said, making Arthur pause.

"No, I'm quite sure that I had plenty more," he insisted, and Alfred didn't know whether to laugh at the way Arthur refused to talk or scowl because Arthur refused to talk.

After all, Alfred needed to know what kind of man Arthur was. Who exactly was it that he was providing space for?

"Really?" Alfred retorted, and he suddenly gave a cheeky grin that he could see took Arthur off guard, "because I saw only one glass."

To match Alfred's apparent positive attitude, Arthur dropped his neutral expression into a frown, and he didn't immediately answer. Alfred was fine with that, he decided, as a man stopped by along the street and peered into the almost empty tavern before continuing on with his day.

"Homesick," Arthur finally said, and it seemed as if he had to force the word out of his mouth, even giving a grimace to go along with it. His hand inched along the table for something. "I—may I have a drink?"

Alfred froze, staring at Arthur incredulously. "You want a drink. Now?" he asked, as if to confirm. Arthur tried to nod, but then was reminded of his hangover and groaned. "Yeah, no drink," Alfred rejected. Arthur's groan turned into something akin to a whine, and he licked his bottom lip.

"I simply miss home, is all," Arthur stated as factually as he could.

Alfred did not say anything, a clear signal to go on, and Arthur's frown turned into a scowl. "What more is there to say? Alistair's gone off and decided to be some bloody pirate, clearly I should miss home and hope they're—" he stopped himself, staring at the edge of the table. There was a beat of silence in the room as Alfred found himself attempting to keep up with what had been said to cause such a sudden quiet, and while he was occupied with that, Arthur grimaced and pushed back from the table. He walked past his coat on the floor and just yanked the tavern door open, getting whisked away by a busy New Jersey street.

The door slammed without so much as a goodbye, and as Alfred pulled the left over and polished clean plate towards him to clean, dunking it in the swiftly dirtying water, he thought that strangers certainly had more to them than they were ever given credit for.

Alfred hated the redcoats being there – and maybe, just maybe, the redcoats hated being there, too.

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><p><strong>AN: Something went wrong with uploading this chapter. Anyway, for those of you who don't live in the United States and might have missed it, go back and read the bottom of Chapter 1 for an explanation of the historic setting that this is taking place in! I added it a few hours after I first posted this story, forgetting that not everyone is as obsessed with history as I am.**

**With this, I present to you, Chapter 2 - posted in the same day as Chapter 1! I'm either on a role or just extremely bored.**

**Because I forgot to mention this last chapter, my girlfriend (DaifukuBun) and I have made a joined account and have decided to start writing stories together and posting them on there. Our first story, currently in the making (and that is not a Cardverse), is called "Ace of Hearts" on the account "_DafuBrits"._Therefore, if you like MY stories, you can be sure to like the ones we make together. After all, she's the one who got me addicted to writing.**

_Also, as an additional note, I'm planning on changing my username but still keeping the last part 'Brits'. Does anyone have any ideas? Anything pitched forward would be much appreciated!_

**With that all said, read and review, and thank you for reading Chapter 2!**


	3. Lobsterback?

**Don't judge a book by its cover.**

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><p>"Hey, you're becoming a big guy, aren't you?" said Alfred enthusiastically, squatting down in front of the bar table to see eye to eye with a small boy of about five. He had the palest of blonde hair, cut short, and a nose that must have grown too fast for the rest of his face, though the proportions weren't necessarily unattractive. His entire skin was pale, matching that to the skin of his parents, but the summer sun outside caused his arms to be dotted with an abundance of freckles and a painful red tint. Alfred also decided that the boy definitely got his eyes from Alfred's brother, Matthew.<p>

"Oh, he certainly is," beamed a feminine voice, a woman by the name of Katyusha, as she bent down from the waist beside Alfred to look at her son. "I wish you could have seen him when he was newborn. He was a big guy even when he was little," she stated.

"Don't get me _started,_" offered a voice from the door. A man strode in, very similar features as Alfred except for his longer hair, paler skin, and eyes that looked similar to the little boy in front of him. "He was the fattest baby I've ever had to see."

"Not fat!" Katyusha protested, "just, decently weighted."

Alfred laughed. "I wish I could have, but it's not my fault you two were set on settling over the mountains. It was like you were desperate for perfect farming soil."

"We were," Matthew, the man who had entered, deadpanned. "And still are."

The boy in front of them giggled. He had been looking back and forth between the adults as they all talked, but suddenly, he jumped closed to Alfred and peered up at him with wide, almost violet, eyes. He leaned closer, and closer, almost causing Alfred to fall back on his bottom, and finally poked the tavern keeper's nose with his pointer finger. "I'm Ivan!" he exclaimed, looking in satisfaction as Alfred lost balance and eventually did fall on his bottom. Alfred blinked, before laughing at the child.

"I'm aware! It's nice to finally meet you, Ivan," he said.

It was early afternoon, and the tavern was decently busy mostly serving food before nightfall, when customers would come in looking for drinks rather than a meal. Elizaveta was bustling around as her husband idly sat there, and it was finally time that she approached the small gathered group and grinned happily at the newly visiting family. Matthew glanced up to see the woman and smiled back. "Why, is this really Elizaveta?" he said, albeit a bit quietly in the room that was gradually filling with more noise.

"And is this really Matthew?" Elizaveta replied, and Alfred and Katyusha stepped back to allow the two to embrace each other in a hearty hug.

"You're even more beautiful than when I last saw, I thought that would be the other way around with age!" Matthew exclaimed, and Elizaveta laughed.

"We're still in our early 20's, I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, before Katyusha butt in.

"Yes, early 20's and taken," Katyusha stated, giving her husband a theatrically pointed look, causing Alfred and his wife to grin. Matthew only looked sheepish.

Elizaveta looked down when a small child went to tug on the hem of her dress. "I'm Ivan!" Ivan repeated again, and Elizaveta's grin grew wider.

As Elizaveta knelt and began to play with Ivan, tickling his sides and reducing the child to a squealing mess that ran and hid behind tables and chair legs, occupied and unoccupied, Alfred got up and commandeered the counter. When Matthew moved to follow, Katyusha decided to leave the two brothers to their own conversation and joined a conversation of her own with Elizaveta as they attempted to catch her son.

"I didn't know you'd be visiting so early," Alfred said, picking up an empty plate from the bar counter.

Matthew accepted a stool to sit on, leaning heavily on said counter. "I didn't, either," he replied. "But Katyusha doesn't want the farm unattended for the beginning of spring. She wants to see if we can begin seeding early this year."

Alfred muttered a soft, 'ah,' dunking the plate in a bucket of a water and leaving it there in favour of turning his full attention on his brother. "I almost miss the farm, but I so happened to marry a city girl. It's kind of odd that ma would pick a city girl out of all girls on the fields, but it just happens that Elizaveta's got a weird sort of charm on her. Her father liked the idea of a strong farmer for his daughter, too."

"The stereotypes are painful," Matthew groaned. "The only farmer they seem to fit is you. Big and buff and handsome – either that, or a creepy old man."

"And you're my twin," Alfred answered cheekily, winking at Matthew, who only snorted.

"Speaking of marrying and all that, have you two gotten pregnant yet?" Matthew finally asked, looking at his brother curiously as Alfred sighed.

"No, not yet, we're waiting until spring. I don't think I want one anymore, though. British soldiers are coming in quicker than ever to this place."

Matthew frowned. "Is that so bad?"

"Yes, it's so bad," Alfred shot back, almost defensively. Matthew shifted a little in surprise. "They're bringing with them conflict, same as in Boston. I don't want a small kid around all of that. And now they've brought it into my own tavern."

"They've brought what into the tavern? This place has alcohol, there's bound to be fights that break out," Matthew reasoned.

"No," Alfred bit back. "A soldier. We're being made to quarter a soldier here until he's needed elsewhere."

Matthew's eyes widened in surprise, but his mouth quirked up pleasantly, and Alfred should have remembered that Matthew did not have the same opinions. It was a wonder how they were brothers at all. They agreed on nothing, their views for everything called opposite, and the matter of the British soldiers was absolutely no exception. "Well, this is certainly news! What is he like?"

Alfred took a deep breath. "That, I can't tell you. I don't know anything myself."

Matthew's frown returned. "Are you saying that you haven't spoken to this man at all? Not had him over for dinner, introduced yourself, nothing?"

"He's already been told who we are and what we do for a living, introductions weren't necessary," Alfred replied curtly. "As for dinner, we already give him a place to sleep – the least he can do is feed himself."

"Alfred!" Matthew exclaimed, mouth slightly agape in incredulous semi-horror. "He's a hardworking soldier, you should give him respect!"

"I'm giving no respect to a man who welcomes himself to any hospitality I have, whether I want to give it or not," Alfred snapped back.

Matthew tensed. "I don't understand what is with you being against them so much. We are British citizens too, after all. They're _our _soldiers, not anybody else's."

Alfred slammed down an empty glass he had just been about to fill with scotch, and the man seated beside Matthew, the one who had ordered it, jumped a little. "You call us British citizens? I'll call myself British when I get treated like the British! How is this fair? Each place in Britain gets their own representatives, chosen by them, to give them a voice as to what they want in Parliament. What do we get? We get nothing! No representative that _we _choose, so what voice do we have? Not one that we want. All the taxes put upon us, we have no say of!"

"So what are you saying? That we break away?" Matthew spat, and Alfred was mildly surprised to hear that the man had raised his voice and was half standing in his chair, arms flat on the counter, leaning forward. "What we? It seems like you're the only one here who wants that."

"Pa?" came a soft voice, but Matthew did not react. He stared straight at Alfred, and Alfred stared straight back, until a small child began crawling onto Matthew's lap and Alfred saw red disappear from the corner of his vision. "Papa, it's loud."

Matthew's hard gaze flickered to look at his son, and Alfred found his own eyes drawn to stare at the only other pair of eyes looking back at him. Elizaveta bit her lip. Matthew closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before glancing quickly around the room. There were more men than before seated at the bar, and some of them were gesturing wildly for Alfred's attention. He turned fully and adjusted Ivan to sit on his knee. "It is, isn't it?" instead of looking back at Alfred, Matthew directed his eyes to his wife, Katyusha, who was leaning against the counter and fighting not to look at Alfred, either. She shrugged and nodded her head towards the door.

Alfred began furiously grabbing glasses and filling them with whatever drink was called out to him by the waiting men at the bar as Elizaveta hurried up to where everyone else was gathered. She took Ivan from Matthew's lap and waved towards the street. "It would be a good idea to be getting back to the house. I'll show you two the way. I haven't prepared anything for your staying there – it seems to be a pattern with Alfred these days that I not be told when we're having guests—," she began to ramble as the two other adults nodded and agreed. After glancing at Alfred to make sure he knew where they would be, Elizaveta started to head towards the door.

"I'll take them," Alfred suddenly called out, and Elizaveta looked at him in surprise. "I don't want you coming back here alone," he said, and before Elizaveta could offer an alternative, or point out that she went back to the house on her own when it was later than it was then, he abandoned his post and headed towards the door.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Elizaveta began, but Alfred interrupted her.

"No, you don't know who is out there at this time," his eyes narrowed, "I've heard there's been more brawls breaking out lately."

With that, they left.

* * *

><p>The horse ride was incredibly awkward, but thankfully, it was not that long. Toward the end, Katyusha brought up small talk, and they began to idly converse about life in the city and how Ivan was doing. The topic soon switched to farm life, though, when Katyusha realised that most of everything that went on in the city involved the British in some way – at least, when it was Alfred talking.<p>

When they got to the quaint house, with only a large garden in the back for crops that Alfred was raising to keep for just the family, Alfred tethered the horse and began to show them to the living room. He gathered large blankets and rugs and anything that would keep them comfortable on the couch and floor until the next day, when Elizaveta would be able to set something up. Katyusha finally shooed him out the door with the assurance that all those blankets made the floor more comfortable than a bed.

Untying his horse and mounting it again, he urged it on back towards the city. Alfred hadn't lied when he said he didn't want Elizaveta riding by herself in the dark anymore. Maybe, setting the routine when they were younger, he had not realised the extent of the danger there was for a woman riding alone during any time – let alone the wee hours of the morning. It was a shame, really, that he would have to tell the woman that. Both of them knew that Elizaveta was probably more capable of handling herself than Alfred was, but Alfred wasn't willing to take his chances.

By the time he had entered the main stretch of city again, only ten minutes later, dark had fully fallen and the streets were nearly all cleared. He was only a few roads down from the tavern, however, when something met his eye. Alfred dismounted his horse then, and walked to unhook the object from the corner of a fence post in the front of an orphanage, staring at the article of clothing with interest.

A red coat.

"Aye!" went a sudden call from behind Alfred, and, still holding the clothing, he spun around – only to get hit in the chest with a decently sized rock. "Aye, lobsterback! Forgot yer filthy coat on my porch step!"

"I'm not—" Alfred started, but he was quickly pelted in the head by small pebbles and had to duck to avoid another heavy rock from hitting his temple.

"That's where I found the thing – or is it your buddy's? Never mind that, you can tell him I said good evening!" The man was a tall but chubby one, balding on the front of his head, but his legs looked strong and sturdy despite the state of his torso. What hair he had was black, and his skin was a pale tone flushed in red and sweating from the summer night's heat. He was wearing the clothing of a regular craftsman standing on the opposite end of the street. Another rock was thrown, but it was bigger than the other ones and struck Alfred's chin.

"I'm not a soldier!" Alfred called, dropping the coat and shielding his face with his hands as rocks continued to be thrown.

"Sure y'ain't!" the man scoffed, "what would'y be doing otherwise, out on the street this time a'night? Other than half-assed 'patrolling', I mean!"

Alfred was quickly moving towards his horse, unwilling to just abandon it and run, and the man saw and immediately began pelting the horse's face with rocks. Alfred moved to shield his mount's head, but already, it had become startled and was backing up. "No, shh, come here," he attempted to coax, turning his back on the man, but a final hit that struck the horse nearly in the eye made it whine and snort, turning and running to where Alfred wanted it to go in the first place. Alfred knew, however, that the horse would not be stopping at the tavern for a drink. Clenching his fists, he angrily spun around to face the craftsman.

"Oh, useless without yer steed, y'think?" the man said, and Alfred saw a woman peer from behind the gate of a porch a little ways down the street. "What're y'going tae do from ova' there? Arrest me? Without a horse to drag m'back?"

"I'm _not _a redcoat!" Alfred called again, "you're being mistaken!" Instead of listening to him, though, Alfred was just again hit with rocks, and giving up, the tavern keeper turned to run up the street.

That was, until a rock hit him from that direction, and another shouting man emerged from a closing barber shop and ran to join the first. Figuring that he didn't want to stick around for what might become of that, Alfred turned heel and ran in the opposite direction, away from the tavern and Elizaveta and down an alley that he could only hope he knew the way out of.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**I wanted to make this chapter longer than the other two, bordering 4,000 words, but I decided that the other two chapters were boring enough and so I tried to end it on a ****_little _****bit of excitement.**

**There seems to always be a problem with A/N's in previous chapters. This time, it's the fact that I misspelled the name of the joined account I mentioned last chapter. It's actually called ****_"DafuBrits". _****Again, if you like MY writing, be sure to check that out!**

**And on with the history.**

**_Another reason colonists were angry with Great Britain (there are far more reasons than many people actually realise) before the Revolutionary War, was that colonists were supposed to be considered British. After all, they came from Britain, originally, and most of them wanted to stick with that history, and they were under the British government, so clearly they should be British citizens. However, there were some people who didn't think that way, because colonists had been forced to be independent from the government for so long in order to survive in the New World. As tensions rose, the people who considered themselves British citizens were angered to find that the taxes that were being forced on them were taxes that were decided by Parliament members all the way in Great Britain. The Parliament members deciding it all had never even been to America to begin with, and this made colonists angry. _**

**_There are multiple sections of Great Britain that gets to elect a representative each to get a seat in Parliament. Getting representatives helps each area get a say in what goes on in Parliament. But the American colonies had no representative in Parliament. This was _****_one of the main reasons they were so angry at being taxed. _****_It was because they had no voice of their own to help decide what should be taxed! They almost thought it as a sort of modern-day dictatorship, where there are these people who were saying what would be the colonist's fate, and the colonists were expected to just go along with it. _**

**_Resentment for these actions can be seen in modern day American politics and government system. They wanted representatives, so they made absolute sure that modern day United States could get as much of a voice per area as possible for a still solid government._**

**_Patriots and Loyalists: _****_We all know about the patriots – they were the ones who wanted to get away from Great Britain for a multitude of reasons (and were the ones that caused the Revolutionary War to happen). Loyalists, on the other hand, wanted to stay with Great Britain. Usually, it was because they had some sort of connection to Great Britain – maybe they were a newer generation to live in the colonies – but either way, they were normally more okay with just going along with what Great Britain did. They trusted Great Britain more and believed that everything Great Britain did had its perfectly alright reasons. _**

**_Loyalists and patriots hated each other's guts, to put it simply. It wasn't uncommon for, later on and right before the Revolutionary War (and even during, if there were still loyalists sticking around those areas), the patriots to vandalise loyalist property, and in some instances hurt, steal, or even kill loyalists (though killing was normally on an accident of some sort). Vice versa was also true, but it wasn't as common, because loyalists depended on the government, and especially the British soldiers, to protect them from the patriots. Loyalties split up families drastically, as it also wasn't unheard of for one member or one part of a family to support one side, and the other part another. Loyalists usually thought patriots were foolhardy, stupid, and completely insane, because they believed full heartedly that there was absolutely no way the colonies could win against Great Britain._**

**_Matthew: If you read closely above, he falls heavily under the belief that the British soldiers being around is amazing, because they'll protect him from any sort of danger. Since he lives on a farm over the mountains, this is especially true in the case of Indians/Native Americans, as they were a large threat being faced by colonists who wanted to move westward._**

_Mountains = The mountains mentioned above and in the story (by Alfred) are referring to the Appalachian Mountains, a mountain range separating New England from the rest of the United States (or just America, during this time). Great Britain made a law attempting to prevent colonists from settling on the other side of this mountain range (to avoid conflict with Native Americans), but colonists soon realised that soil over there (particularly in modern-day Ohio) is a LOT better for farming than where they were allowed to settle, so they went over there anyway. __**You might want to search up a modern-day U.S. map to understand the mountains part if you don't live in the U.S. already. The Appalachian Mts. are on the right side of the map.**_

**Review if you can! After all, reviews make me write faster.**


	4. Don't Think

**He say, "I know you, you know me,**

**One thing I can tell you is you got to be free.**

**Come together, right now,**

**Over me."**

**-Come Together, The Beatles**

* * *

><p>Oh, he was lost.<p>

Alfred just knew it. The alley had had a wall that he was able to climb and jump over, and after fast-walking down another street and through a few twists and turns when he swore he could hear yelling behind him, he had both lost his pursuers and lost himself.

Why he had gone so far and through so much trouble, Alfred would likely never know. After all, it wasn't as if the protestors would kill him. But it was not a lie when Alfred mentally claimed that the man had almost started to scare him as someone else had joined, as if a mob were about to form, and Alfred could only stare blankly at the street as he was struck with the thought that that was how redcoats faced with crowds must have felt. Incidents that would happen by the redcoats stuck in a yelling and taunting crowd would have the redcoats blamed to the full extent, as if they were faulty persons out to get them all, but in reality, that could hardly have been the case most of the time.

Thank god it was not Elizaveta instead of Alfred at that moment.

Finally, Alfred stopped, looking closely up and down the street for any signs of a place he might recognise. Knocking on a shop or a home would be a bad idea all around – no one would be stupid enough to open their door to a stranger after dark. Especially not in the city. He couldn't even figure out which end of the street led away or deeper into the city. If Alfred somehow managed to get into the centre of the city, he would be sure to find a way back to the tavern, as the city centre was where he got his supplies for the tavern to begin with. Regardless, it was Elizaveta who normally went, but that was not a thought Alfred needed to have that night.

Cautiously, he began making his way up the street to where he assumed the main bundle of city would be, judging by the way townhouses became narrower and more popular the farther he went. The empty streets also got gradually louder, but that was so surprise, for no city ever truly slept. There was the occasional shout or whoop that echoed off of the wooden walls and cobblestone ground, but where most of the noise originated from was within the buildings themselves. At one point, he passed the bottom floor of a townhouse, and inside the small living space candles flickered and the muffled sound of laughter and singing could be heard. Every time Alfred passed by what seemed to be a pub, there was also laughter, though more unruly and rowdy than places elsewhere. It made him feel almost alone, if Alfred were truthful with himself. Kicking loose rocks and looking behind him at every other noise made him both paranoid and feeling dreadfully small, and then knowing he was isolated from where others were having fun made him feel as if he did not at all – he was alone.

Which was ridiculous. He had Elizaveta and Matthew and his tavern. He would soon be having a child. But at that second in time, stranded in the dark streets of New Jersey; well, it felt awfully odd, as if he had just lost all of those and had absolutely no place to go.

Maybe that's why Alfred ran into him.

At least, more like spotted him way up the street in a long sleeved white blouse he must have bought somewhere, and a brown vest that didn't connect. He was wearing matching brown trousers that pressed against his skin at the knee and ended there, being joined by long white socks that stretched over his shins. Alfred thought that it looked almost exactly like the outfit he himself was wearing, before realising that Arthur must have joined the common fashion when out of his uniform. Speaking of which, wasn't he supposed to be in his uniform?

For, that was certainly Arthur. Almost unrecognisable in the attire, but his green eyes practically glowed as he leaned up against a shoe craftsman's shop and stared at the palms of his hands. Alfred frowned and stopped in his tracks, staring unashamedly at the solider he was quartering in his tavern, silently observing as Arthur shifted on his feet uncomfortably. It seemed as if the man had not noticed Alfred yet, as he did not glance in Alfred's direction at all. Instead, he lifted his head, staring at the sky, and Alfred found himself struck with a breathless feeling, as if he was intruding on something he was to never see.

That was when Arthur must have spotted him from the corner of his eye, and the soldier's head snapped to the right to stare at Alfred himself. He froze, his hands still suspended in the air, as if looking to the sky themselves for answers to some unspoken question. Then his eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to comprehend the sight, while Alfred took it upon himself to forcefully move his legs and approach the partially unknown man.

"Hello," he greeted, more than mostly awkward. Arthur stared at him. "What are you up to?"

Rapidly adjusting his stance, Arthur put his hands down to his sides and straightened his back, pushing back from the wall. "Taking a walk," he replied lamely.

"Ah," Alfred hummed, nodding, and they lapsed into silence again.

Clearing his throat, Arthur raised his chin, as if attempting to seem superior to Alfred. "Did you," he paused, "did you come out here to look for me?"

Alfred froze, not having expected that question out of everything that could have been asked, and that was when it fully registered that it was completely dark out in New Jersey and Arthur had only been leaning against a wall, not appearing intent at all to head back to the tavern. "Oh, actually," Alfred started, reaching a hand to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, "I got lost." At Arthur's inquiring look, Alfred went on. "My brother and his family have come to visit from the west, so I showed them to my home. On my way back, though, I ran into trouble and some misunderstanding with two men and my horse was lost. I've been trying to make my way back to a familiar street since then," Alfred explained.

Arthur looked vaguely interested. "Ah, what was that misunderstanding?" he asked, and his searching eyes seemed to only gain a new interested light at the way Alfred's face seemed to morph even more sheepishly than before.

"I found a British uniform on a fence. A man saw me with it and it had apparently been some trap to corner a soldier, so he assumed I was said soldier," Alfred briefly elaborated.

There was something in Arthur's face that Alfred could not quite make out. "Ah," was only what he offered, and there was a beat of silence where he seemed to get his bearings. Finally, however, he pointed in the direction that Alfred had already been heading. "That's where the mayor's office is. You'll be able to find the tavern on the same street as that, though I'm sure you already knew. Just keep going straight."

"Are you not coming with?" asked Alfred, and Arthur seemed to pause again in surprise.

"No," Arthur said, shaking his head.

That was when Alfred frowned. "What do you plan on doing out here so late?" he asked, almost suspiciously, and Arthur scowled. Alfred paid it no mind, though, and gestured towards where Arthur said the tavern would be. "Come back with me, it isn't safe."

"Oh, and?" Arthur retorted, suddenly bitter, and Alfred's frown deepened. Arthur was acting like a child, and Arthur must have known, for his face began to flush. "Never mind that, I wouldn't want to disrupt your night any more than I already have."

Alfred only tilted his head, however. It was just the slightest amount, almost as if he were some sort of puppy, but Arthur saw and gave Alfred a look that suggested Alfred was the strangest man he had ever met. "You just prevented me from becoming more lost than I already was, the least I can do is be aware that you weren't mugged in my absence."

"You aren't my guardian," was the only reply Arthur gave, still refusing to move, and Alfred found that the behaviour honestly annoyed him.

"No, but I don't want my hospitality going to waste on a dead soldier," he retorted, and before Arthur could answer, he grabbed his arm and started tugging him.

Arthur's eyes widened, and then rapidly narrowed. Alfred could just mentally hear Arthur swear about the nerve of such a colonist. The nerve to nearly drag a British soldier, why, Arthur simply would not have it. So he yanked his arm away with a sudden surprising amount of force, out of Alfred's grip, causing the colonist to stumble. "Hospitality? Last I hear, your hospitality isn't very welcome, so do leave me be!"

"What in the hell are you talking about?" Alfred demanded, frustrated, and the frustration showed on Arthur's face as well.

"I'm talking about your rapidly developed, lovely conversation with that young man hours ago!" Arthur spat in return, and Alfred's mind ran to keep up with the scrolling arguement.

"You mean, my brother?" Alfred asked as confirmation, and Arthur threw up his hand in exasperation.

"No, bloody hell, your grandmum!" the British soldier exclaimed.

Finally, it dawned on the colonist, and he took a step back to examine the other man from a distance. Arthur had his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw was set, looking very keen to be anywhere other than face to face with his host, and Alfred found that it struck a nerve. "Wait, so you heard that?" he said, fighting to deny that his suspicions were correct. The answer he got was probably one of the most intense glares he had ever had to receive. "Okay, so you did!" he agreed, putting his palms up.

Shit.

It wasn't as if it were illegal for colonists to not like Great Britain. Hell, everyone, loyalist or patriot, had some form of complaint against the mother country at that point in time.

But the last comment from Matthew was a dangerous one; for wanting to break away, saying to break away, supporting to break away from the motherland – that was almost treason.

And treason was punishable by death.

"You know," Alfred started, swearing that his hands were about to start shaking, "we, here in the colonies, all have something against Great Britain. No, that—I mean, not against, like, we're more... We have some complaints. Just a few little things here and there that we aren't so happy about," he said, and his voice lifted at the end of his little ramble in what could only be described as a falsely cheerful way.

Arthur's stance slowly softened, and he became less stiff, but his guard only went up. His expression was calculating and confused, staring straight into Alfred's face as if searching for a clue on what on earth Alfred could possibly be thinking about.

And finally… "What is it like in the colonies?"

Well, that it was certainly not something Alfred expected Arthur to ask, either, but Alfred supposed that must have just been a theme with the British soldier. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Arthur started, "all I know is that you all have gotten into a fuss about what we only call rubbish," he claimed. "But what is about is all over the place. Why," he coughed, "why do you not like Great Britain?"

"Oh, no!" Alfred protested, laughing almost nervously, "you see, I don't not like Great Britain! Oh, no, Great Britain is rather fine. It's just a few suggestions that have been floating around. A few things that—"

"Shut it," Arthur interrupted, causing Alfred to do just that and shut his mouth. "Suggestions or not, I want to hear it. Now."

Alfred did not honestly appreciate being demanded, but before he could bring up his rebellious act – as it was so often called by Elizaveta and Matthew alike – he remember what it was the question had been, and found that he wanted to answer that question. He wanted Arthur to know why the soldier was being constantly harassed, and why the colonies were constantly harassing. Was that not only fair?

Was that not only just?

And so they talked.

They talked as they, cautiously, slowly, began moving up the cobblestone walk, back towards the mayor's office and to where the tavern should have been. It was mostly Alfred talking, and he spoke of the protests against representation, the reason they disliked the taxes, the dislike for the sudden active government, the frustration for not having their own input or consent on anything – and then he talked about the loyalists, and that there were those who were fine with it. But that morphed into talking about Matthew, and before he knew it, Alfred was not talking only about Matthew, but about his own mother, and his own farm, and then Elizaveta, and then Matthew moving west and Alfred going to live in the city where he honestly was not used to the life that went on. Alfred was talking about his own home and his own friends and where they lived, Boston and New York, and how Gilbert constantly got drunk yet it was Francis who had an uncanny love for wine, and then Gilbert's own hatred for the British and Francis' hatred for only the brawls that broke out, and then Alfred's own observations on British hardships and finally, finally, Alfred turned to Arthur with a frown.

"What's it like being a soldier?"

And so it went.

Arthur then began, slowly, to speak, and he started off vague. He started off very vague. But gradually, gradually, he offered more details, and suddenly Alfred had a fleshed out picture by the time they stopped in the middle of the street only metres from the mayor's office, unwilling to get back to the tavern so quickly.

"I'm the second youngest of five brothers," Arthur said at one point, a little ways after the discussion on his part had begun, and Alfred's eyes widened comically.

"Five? Oh god, we couldn't feed a family of five on the farm," Alfred said, as if thinking about the horror, and Arthur let out a breathy, humourless chuckle. "All boys, too? That poor mom."

*"Yes, five. In order from eldest to youngest goes Aidan, Alistair, Dylan, me, and then Peter. I've heard Aidan married an Irish woman, though, and has a little girl. Why on earth an Irish woman, though, I'll never know," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I was the least liked out of all of them, though Dylan was more kind to me. Then again, he's a kind and calm man in general, who really loves animals. I got taunted and teased and bullied by my elder brothers to the point where Peter picked it up, too, and then I ran away from home.

I lived with my cousins, Noah and William, until father found me and dragged me back. After that, the bullying and taunting got bad enough that my father took pity on me and suggested I join the British Navy. He was once a part of the British Navy, and considered it an honour for me to go. I, however, don't have the … best of feelings associating with water, and so when it came time for me to enlist, I enlisted for the Army and said it was the slip of my hand.

It's strict there. Very strict. I've seen the militias of your colonies. Each colony has their own militia, yes? This is nothing like that," Arthur said, and Alfred had been silenced for longer than Arthur had ever heard him silenced as the colonist listened intently. "Breaking away?" Arthur mentioned, for the first time that Alfred had heard, and Alfred instinctively winced. "What an idea," he said, shaking his head with another humourless laugh, "you would not stand a chance."

Alfred was silent for another beat. Then, "I think we would."

Arthur gave him another incredulous stare. "What?"

That was when Alfred became determined, staring down at the cobblestone and paying no mind to what he had said, paying no attention to the fact that he was saying that to a man from Britain, saying that about that man's home. "I think we could do it," Alfred said, and he didn't specify what it was exactly that the colonies could do. It was taboo, and it was certainly not needed, for Arthur understood.

"Don't," Arthur eventually replied. "Don't think it."

"Why not?" Alfred shot back, almost defensive, and when Arthur tensed, Alfred knew that he had said something wrong, that he had taken a step back.

"Know when the odds are never in your favour, Mr. Jones!" Arthur spat loudly, and Alfred could briefly hear it echo off the surrounding buildings. "You need to know that, or you simply won't make it out to see the light of day. Don't think of it," he said, "think of only your family. Think of only your coming child."

Alfred wanted to reply, wanted to say something witty to what Arthur had said, but found himself speechless when Arthur spoke again.

"Please, don't think it," he went, and Alfred was shocked to hear that it was almost a borderline beg. "A young man like you doesn't deserve to be killed, too."

And then the tavern door that Alfred did not even realise they had finally reached shut firmly in his face.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I actually started this chapter thinking, "Oh, this time I won't have to shove a flood of history in my reader's faces!" **

**Guess what? I was wrong. At least it isn't as bad as last chapter.**

_**One of the reasons loyalists were so sure that the colonies stood absolutely no chance against the British, later on, is because A. The British Army had so much more greater numbers, B. They had far better weaponry, and C. They had far better training. The British Army was truly a formidable force to go up against. Each colony, however, only had their militias, which pretty much consisted of ragtag volunteers spurred on by only a sense of pride and patriotism. The only weapons they had were the weapons they brought with them from home (also the reason for a popular statement in the U.S. constitution concerning modern day gun laws, as the statement says that everyone has the right to have guns PARTLY due to this problem faced by militias). The militias also had maybe a very last minute bout of training and that was it. British soldiers, however, trained for a very long time before being sent to the colonies, and it was drilled into them to follow orders. They were armed with matching weapons of Britain's latest gun development and consisted of nearly all young men in their finest and strongest years, while militias sometimes accidently recruited 13-16 year old boys or around that age who wanted desperately to fight or men in their middle ages and older. **_

***Ireland was very poor during this time, and they were not respected at all among… anyone in the world, really (as far as I'm aware). During the Industrial Revolution of the United States (in the late 1800's), there was a huge mass of Irish immigrants moving to the U.S. for jobs, and they ended up being pretty much the 'low of the low' (until the Italians moved in, and then they were the 'low of the low'). They were living off scraps, here, and were very much hated because Americans didn't like how they were taking up jobs (kind of like how Americans are towards Mexicans these days). It's also why there are ****_so many god damn Americans saying they're Irish. _****Not to offend anyone, but. Lots and lots of Irish ancestry. Lots.**

_Aidan: Ireland_

_Alistair: Scotland_

_Dylan: Wales_

_Noah: Australia_

_William: New Zealand_

**Review if you can, and I hope you enjoyed reading Chapter 4 of - oh god, this acronym - AQCMMQY!**


	5. Ignorance is Innocence

**Ignorance is bliss.**

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><p>Despite clearly distressing each other the night before, something had certainly changed.<p>

That afternoon, Arthur left late. The tavern was already busy serving lunch, and that was when he donned his coat and hurriedly pulled on his boots before dashing for the door – as he clearly had some place to be. When Alfred glanced up, however, from dishing out an omelet to a strange looking man from the east, Arthur was just making his way past the counter. The British soldier of the Royal Army turned, and he nodded. "Alfred," he greeted, and Alfred took a second to respond.

"Arthur," he replied, likewise, and then Arthur was gone.

Elizaveta frowned at Alfred when he turned back around to face her.

That night, however, the small tavern was more crowded than the usual, and Alfred was mildly surprised and greatly annoyed to find a crowd of other soldiers from the British Army gathered around. It seemed, however, that not all were soldiers. Many wore the crest of a general, and they certainly acted the part, if one were to cut out the drunken stupor that had many laughing and dancing and doing nothing to appear as mature as they were supposed to be. They did, though, know their rank. But one thing was most different about the crowd that night, a difference that Elizaveta ignored but Alfred looked on towards with interest and the slightest bit of apprehension, as if he did not want to know but knew he needed to.

Arthur was in their midst. He was clapped heartily on the back by a few generals and offered drink by drink by drink, and he drank them all. It was an odd sight. Alfred had never seen the man drunk, but he seemed to let loose far more when he was. He was loud and his laughter was contagious – though rather harsh and hollow – and he gestured wildly with every word that he said. Those not part of the British Army were soon the ones who were leaving early.

By the end of the night, with the singing and dancing and most of which involving Arthur or being starred by Arthur, many soldiers had gone outdoors or were dragged away by more sober folk. Arthur had lost his coat and his shirt was unbuttoned all the way to his waist, where only one button remained intact, but he did not join them. Instead, he seemed to have almost collapsed in his seat, and was sitting lopsided at the hip, his torso slowly dragging itself right until it was inevitable that he was about to fall off the chair.

Alfred swore that he was sleeping off the alcohol until Arthur did, in fact, fall onto the ground, buckling his arms underneath him, and groaned. He swayed as he tried to stand up and used the table as a support, before pushing himself to the counter. When getting to the counter, propping himself up with his elbows and swinging himself onto the seat, Arthur dug a handful of *notes from his pocket – not bothering to see how much it actually amounted to – and tossed them so that they slid across the table and nearly fell onto the ground. "Scotch," he muttered.

Alfred thought that Arthur truly had some weird love for scotch. He pretended to think about the demand, as if it were merely a request, and then looked at Arthur and the way he seemed to suddenly slouch against the wood as if he had no more energy in him to sit up properly. Elizaveta glanced over at them from the other end of the tavern, but otherwise said nothing, opting to instead focus on gathering all the dirty dishes. "Eh," he shrugged, "no." It was said so casually that Arthur did not even catch what had been said for a moment.

"Pardon me?" Arthur demanded, his attention perked, as he rose his head and fixed Alfred with an intense, acidic glare. His arms were crossed in front of him and he used them to push his torso up in an attempt to seem more intimidating. "What is with you and denying me of my scotch?" he cried, slamming his fist on the wood.

"Maybe it's the fact that you've already had far too much," Alfred stated factually, stepping back from the counter to dunk a wine glass into a tub of water just as Arthur half stood and attempted grabbing him.

"'ave nooot," Arthur slurred, still looking extremely peeved but more exhausted than anything.

Elizaveta shook her head, amused, at the display. Alfred rolled his eyes at her and she laughed at him, watching as he went around the counter to look at Arthur as if he were a wall that needed getting over. "You could just drag him into his room," she said.

"'Drag him into his room,'" Alfred repeated, "what is he, our pre-teen son? I thought he was our elder?"

"Apparently not," Elizaveta only said, gesturing for him to start moving with a shooing motion of her wrist. After Arthur's more friendly behaviour towards Alfred, it seemed as if Elizaveta was overall more welcoming to Arthur, and Alfred could not figure out if that was a good or bad thing. Clearly, the three were less strangers for each other and more of vague acquaintances, though Alfred could not say the same between him and Arthur.

It was almost as if Arthur and he could have been considered friends.

Arthur fought and sputtered, mumbled and half-heartedly slapped Alfred, but Alfred could not understand a thing Arthur was saying or trying to accomplish. It seemed as if Arthur was simply too tired, which was the only thing about that situation which Alfred considered to be understandable, given that Arthur had not sat down and been idle for a second the entire night. That meant not a thing for all the alcohol in his system, however. No, all of that alcohol was certainly still there.

Alfred began by pushing Arthur's shoulder, attempting to steer him towards the room, but Arthur simply kept stumbling and tripping and trying to turn the other way for his not forgotten scotch. As that continued for plenty more minutes, Alfred opted instead to grab the man – thank god he was thinner and slightly shorter than Alfred, though definitely not by much and the man was, by all means, well-built and toned and significantly heavy – by the arm. He turned Arthur so that the Brit was facing him, picked him up by the sides and then by the thighs, and heaved him over his shoulder.

"Augh!" Arthur cried out in anguish, moving to kick Alfred in the chest, but he flattened his arm against the back of Arthur's knees to prevent him from doing just that. Elizaveta burst out laughing from the kitchen as Alfred began walking to the room.

It was difficult. Arthur kept sliding off his shoulder, either backwards, forwards, or to the side. He was also almost as heavy as Alfred, and Alfred could feel it take its toll on his back. He nearly fell backwards when Arthur decided to start wiggling his bottom to get free and, as a last resort, when Alfred finally walked into the room and kicked the door closed, Arthur spanked him.

"What in—" Alfred yelped, promptly leaning over and ungracefully dropping Arthur onto the bed. It was a bare room with a bare bed that had nothing on it for décor or for comfort, and the room itself was cold with its single window that was cracked along the seal, but it would have to do for Arthur until they thought of a place for him during the winter. Arthur mumbled something that Alfred could not hear and collapsed on the floor.

Alfred frowned, staring down at the man. He really was a mess when he was intoxicated. His cheeks were flushed red and his hair was glued to his head as he plopped lazily onto his knees. "Dun wanna goo," he finally whined, and Alfred could only stare in bewilderment as Arthur suddenly got his bearings and leaned back against the bed, staring back at Alfred. "Ahh," he panted, attempting to take his shirt off all the way, and it took Alfred a moment to register what was going on.

"Do you have a fever?" Alfred asked, bending down on his knees and pressing his palm against Arthur's forehead. He could not tell if Arthur was warmer than normal, however, due to the sweat plastered against his hairline, which cooled his skin. Arthur giggled at the feeling.

"I's really hot," Arthur breathed out. He blinked once, twice, refocusing his vision as he stared up at the colonist who was balancing his stance on the pads of his feet.

"Not really," Alfred said, concerned. "It is actually quite cold."

Arthur shook his head rapidly. "Summer here is hot, hot," he said, giggling again and falling to the side. "England, not so much. England colder." Then, Arthur's giggling went to an abrupt stop, and Alfred's mind rushed to catch up. "Miss England," he said, "miss England, do nooot miss people."

Alfred was about to respond, until Arthur's eyes widened comically and he dramatically turned to Alfred. He looked as if he wanted to grab Alfred's shirt, but he instead only succeeded in leaning his entire weight on the man's shoulder. "Dylan," he said, and Alfred was beginning to think that Arthur had gone delusional. Maybe he really did have that fever, in which case, that entire night surely only spread the illness faster. Arthur lifted his head to peer at Alfred closer, bringing his face as close as it could go until his nose was pressed against the colonist's and he was cross eyed. Alfred reared his head backwards, away from Arthur's own. "Dylan, you are not supposed to be here," Arthur finally breathed out in almost a whisper, bringing a hand up to stroke Alfred's hair, and Alfred could only find the gesture and entire situation extremely creepy.

"You're supposed to be drown-ded," he said, causing Alfred's heart to stop.

Alfred gaped just the slightest bit, his lips barely separating, unsure of how to take those words. He was staring with a bemused and open mouthed expression at Arthur, but Arthur only looked unbearably happy. Without warning, Arthur tackled Alfred, and though it was not with much strength for a drunken man, Alfred's fragile balance to begin with caused both of them to topple onto the floor.

When Alfred brought his chin down to look at the Englishman laying on his chest, he could feel Arthur's arms wrapped around the small of his back and one leg was hooked firmly over his hip. The other was sprawled backwards, between Alfred's legs – which were bent towards the ceiling – and the entire position made it appear as if Arthur was going to start crawling towards Alfred's face. Arthur looked up, causing his sweat matted bangs to fall in front of his eyes and his chin to rest right beneath Alfred's pectorals. His green eyes looked almost dazed, but it was a happy sort of dazed as they fought for control of his vision.

Alfred decided on one thing at that moment.

Arthur had definitely gotten sick.

He should have thrown the drunken and ill man off of him, forced him into bed and stayed there until he was sure he had fallen asleep and was not moving any time soon, but despite everything, Alfred found that the position was unbearably – comfortable.

Elizaveta was not a woman who cuddled, and considering they both thought themselves to be more of friends rather than anyone with romantic interests, there were no extra endearments – or really, any endearments at all. They respected one another, and upheld their planned marriage with the honour that was expected of a man and a woman put together to marry.

So in that split second which Arthur did not say Dylan's name again, Alfred refused to acknowledge that a half delusional soldier who thought him to be someone else was laying on top of him. Instead, he brought up his arms and interlocked them over the part of Arthur's body that was immediately reachable, which happened to be the top of Arthur's back. The Englishman shifted, startled, and he bent the leg that was formerly sprawled up and bent his arms so that he was propped and looking curiously down at the man underneath him. Alfred's gut lurched when he figured that would be the moment Arthur realised that Alfred was not who he wanted him to be, but Arthur did not seem to come to that realisation. Instead, he used his bent limbs to heave himself farther up Alfred's body, so that he was resting the side of his head against Alfred's collarbone.

The only thing Alfred could think about was Arthur's palms pressing up against the small of his back, and his heart leaped to his throat for some unexplainable reason when Arthur squeezed his arms and pressed Alfred ever closer to his chest. Alfred could not breathe, but Arthur was not hugging him hard enough to cut off his air. No, his blood was just racing so ever fast that he could not think, could not breathe.

He thought that the position on the ground was comfortable and comforting. That was all there had to be to it, and Alfred did not want to let go. He especially did not want Arthur to let go. No, he wanted Arthur to press him closer, as it felt safer and even more comfortable when he did, so Alfred wrapped his arms tighter right below the man's shoulders, laying his palms flat against the muscle there. He could feel his heart beat in his cheeks when Arthur responded accordingly, pressing Alfred closer to him.

Suddenly, Alfred was all too aware of the fact that Elizaveta was in the other room. Alfred would have to make Elizaveta cuddle with him soon – it felt nice.

-Elizaveta. Oh god. Elizaveta was in the other room. She was waiting for him so that they could go home. Arthur had already made his own place on Alfred's chest, though, and the leg that was wrapped around his hip was pulling him ever closer. But Alfred had to go, so he steeled his resolve and used his tight grip on the man to roll over so that Arthur was beneath him, hoping to be able to stand up and make his way out the door.

He only then figured out how odd their positions were. How wrong. It was friendly cuddling, surely, but as Alfred looked down at the way Arthur was still in the same place as he had been when on top of Alfred, he could only think of how wrong it must have looked had anyone else seen.

Quickly, Alfred attempted to get up again, but Arthur made a sound of protest and used his own hold on the small of Alfred's back so that the man fell down and was squished against his stomach. Alfred's hips were between Arthur's legs.

"Arthur," Alfred whispered, almost pleadingly, his breath coming in pants as if he had just run from the tavern to his home already. It was a weird, unexplored feeling. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed, though his eyes had been closed shut the entire time. His eyelids squeezed tighter, as if slightly distressed, but Alfred could tell that the man was awake. "Arthur," he swallowed, "Arthur, I have to go."

Finally, the man's eyes snapped open, but instead of the blurry and happy stupor Alfred expected the man to have, Arthur's eyes momentarily cleared in alarm. They stayed suspended there, Alfred's hands instinctively having gone to Arthur's hips from when he had been shoved, and Alfred's own hips caught between Arthur's bent legs.

Then, he was shoved away.

Arthur looked like he wanted to yell, to lecture Alfred as he haphazardly crawled away backwards, but his mouth only opened and closed like a fish. Alfred could not figure out what was wrong. Yes, the position had looked odd, but surely, there was no harm in it? Yet Arthur certainly did not think so, and as Arthur fought for words, Alfred could hear footsteps from the main tavern area approaching the room.

So he thought it a good time to go.

Taking the chance given to him, Alfred got up and abandoned where Arthur lay awkwardly on the floor, feeling the smallest twinge of guilt even though he could not understand why – likely from just having ditched a sick man who needed caring for – and nearly slammed open the door in his haste to get outside.

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><p><strong>AN: Woah, an update not at 3AM? Blasphemy! It's only 9:30PM!**

**NOTE: You guessed it right! Alfred fits the saying 'ignorance is bliss' by a long shot. In this story, he has absolutely no sexual experience - after all, the only birth control back then was abstinence, and I did say that Elizaveta didn't want to get pregnant until the spring - and without internet, hell, he doesn't even know what masturbation is. Lets give a round of applause for our innocent-as-hell American colonist, shall we? (The reason Arthur doesn't fit this is that he grew up with three older brothers, and he is also in the freaking army. Did you know that back then, it wasn't uncommon for wagons of prostitutes to follow armies for whenever they set camp?).**

_*Notes were the paper money currency in the American colonies. Also, since there was no 'official' money currency, especially in the way of coins, coins from other countries were popular to circle around, such as the Spanish dollar._

**I'm just going to say, I absolutely adore every single time I get a review, and I'm shocked at how I've already gotten 11 reviews for only four chapters! That is just... amazing. I am definitely not the most popular author on here, considering everything else I've written have been one-shots, so I am extremely grateful to all of those who have been consistently reviewing! It really does spur on my confidence for this story, and my own motivation to write/continue with it. I'm going to have to give a shout out to _The Inkstained Hands _and _GarGoyl_, especially. These lovely people have reviewed every chapter so far, and I am extremely grateful! (In the most important matter of things, they're the ones who have kept me going in a daily update pattern. Even I'm surprised with how I've been doing this).**

**Thank you!**


	6. Happy

**Humans hate what they can't understand.**

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><p>It was morning, and Alfred was only itching to get back to the tavern.<p>

He was not skeptical about the events of the night before, he was not reluctant to see Arthur again – it was a night of lying in bed with Elizaveta's sleeping form and thinking of Arthur's flushed cheeks and fever hazed gaze that had him dashing out of bed the moment Elizaveta's inner timer woke her up, without a wink of sleep.

His concern for Arthur's wellbeing surprised him, and he silently thought of whether or not that meant he was gaining more sympathies for the British. That could not have been the case. There was an entire list of reasons Alfred had no reason to be on good terms with the redcoats, but he felt no hatred when he remembered Arthur in his tavern. His earlier reluctance to shelter a redcoat was gone. Alfred may pass a redcoat on the street and instantly dislike them, as what often happened and continued to happen even after he met Arthur, but thinking of Arthur was not the same. Alfred thought of Arthur when he thought of Arthur, he did not think of Arthur's red coloured coat.

Matthew was already awake by the time Alfred skirted around the corner, folding the blankets on the floor that he insisted folding even though he would only be taking them out again by night fall. The house only consisted of a ground floor and Alfred and Elizaveta had only thought far enough as to need a room for themselves and one child. The one child had a room which Katyusha had insisted be left for Ivan by himself, as Ivan was sure to wake up in the middle of the night and find a way to bother Alfred or Elizaveta. Therefore, as the first night, Katyusha and Matthew were left to their own devices on the floor in the main room.

"Morning, Matt," Alfred greeted as he stumbled into the room, still attempting to done his vest.

"Morning," Matthew responded, looking curiously at Alfred's rushing figure. The blankets still on the floor beside Matthew were empty, and Alfred was just about to ask where his wife was until he heard her voice originate from the kitchen.

"You are up earlier than usual," she commented as she rounded the corner and eyed Alfred up and down. She offered a soft smile. "Normally, Elizaveta is the one to come down first and complain about how you will not wake up, despite so many efforts on her part."

Alfred laughed, attempting not to appear as eager as he really was to simply get on his horse and go. "Ah, well, she used to not have that problem, when we were awakening at different times. I suppose she will just have to carry on," Alfred dismissed, causing Katyusha to let out one of her soft laughs. Everything about the woman was soft. Alfred decided then that his parents really did know who Matthew's perfect match was.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Elizaveta's footsteps could be heard from down the hall. Alfred did not even wait for her to show her face before he was out the door and working to tether the horse to its seats. He had accomplished the feat and was holding the reigns when Elizaveta calmly walked out of the front door and stood on the porchstep, wrapped in a shawl to protect her from the pre-dawn approaching autumn air. She watched Alfred for a moment as he jumped off the seat and unhooked one of the reins from a bolt that it had caught on before jumping back on, jiggling his leg like it was perfectly normal to be excited to go to work before sunrise.

"Did the King decide that he did not want the colonies anymore?" Elizaveta finally said as Alfred was staring off into the forest nearby, gaze clouded. He jumped to attention at her voice.

"Oh?" he replied, before even fully registering the question. Once he did, though, his eyes widened, "what? He did?"

Elizaveta looked torn between laughing or sighing. "Maybe in your world," she quipped, walking forward and helping herself to a spot beside her spouse. At his bemused expression, she finally sighed. "What are you so gay for?"

Alfred hesitated, and that's when Elizaveta knew to offer him her full attention. "I am not gay," he said, "simply eager."

"Is that not the same thing?" Elizaveta inquired further, and Alfred gave her a look.

"Not when you're guilty," he responded, urging the two horses in front of them forward. Alfred was not looking Elizaveta's way, but he could see from the corner of his eye how she suddenly perked up. "Arthur," he said. "Last night, I believe Arthur was ill."

Elizaveta jumped off.

Giving an exclamation of surprise, Alfred abruptly stopped the horses, causing them to neigh in protest, and stared with wide eyes and a relieving intake of air as Elizaveta's figure disappeared back into the house. After a few minutes, he was about to get off the seat and follow her, perhaps offer her a right lecture on her adventures, until she reappeared on the porch step and was hurrying back towards where Alfred sat. In her hand was a pillow from their own bedding, a blanket, and a bundle of baby blue coloured fabric.

Alfred stared in silence as she finally settled back into her seat, leaving her supplies at her feet, and turned to her husband as if nothing at all had happened – gesturing for him to continue.

"What?" was all that Alfred offered, not even bothering to elaborate, and Elizaveta only smiled.

"You said that he was ill," was all that she said, reaching forward for the reigns and using them to urge the horses on herself when Alfred made no move to do so.

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><p>Elizaveta rolled her eyes when Alfred burst into the tavern. In all reality, he should not have been so eager to discover a sick patient, but, alas, he was.<p>

The tavern was quiet, as it should have been, so Alfred took all liberty to make his way towards the back of the main room. He did not knock – he was not someone who bothered to knock on a regular day – before taking it upon himself to open the door and stare at the man under the covers.

Actually, he was under no covers. The covers had been thrown back, and Arthur was laying on his stomach without his shirt, only wearing white long johns. One arm was dangling off the bedside, and a single candle was down to but a mere stub sitting on its bowl on top of his desk. Despite that, there was nothing else in the room, and he was breathing soundly.

"Odd," Alfred commented as he softly shut the door.

Elizaveta did not look up from where she stood, beginning to prepare breakfast for whoever decided to eat breakfast at the tavern. "Hm?" was the only thing she said.

"He's normally up by now. I have never seen him sleeping by the time I have gotten here," Alfred elaborated, not bothering to help as Elizaveta did not appreciate any help during her cooking. Instead, he sat at one of the stools, eyeing a forgotten bottle of scotch abandoned near the stove. It was a wonder Arthur had not found it during the night.

Elizaveta gave him a sidelong look that made Alfred feel like he had said something stupid. "You said he was ill, yes?" she said slowly, as if she were speaking to a child, making Alfred roll his eyes. "If he's ill, then it's good that he is sleeping. Although," Elizaveta frowned at her next statement, "I'm certain that they must have training of some sort before the winter."

Alfred directed his eyes to stare at the pattern of wood on the bar counter. He did not want Arthur to possibly get in trouble for missing anything soldier-related or important, but he figured that Arthur's health came before that. Besides, and Alfred could have kicked himself for the thought, it was not as if Alfred was eager to give the redcoats any help in their training. "No," Alfred said, insistent to convince both himself and his wife, "the cold approaching. I'm sure they are not eager to set out on some sort of mission right at this moment."

Elizaveta cast a glance out of the window, towards the still grey streets despite the lightening of the sky. The very air seemed laden with fog. "I suppose," she shrugged, "but remember, it's September. The summer heat has only just begun to fully leave."

"I'll call today the beginning of autumn," Alfred said, noting the weather outside. "Up until this moment, the skies have been clear and the nights have been warm."

Elizaveta did not bother to add anything, as there was nothing to add, and Alfred was just about to settle into the age-long routine of waiting until Elizaveta spoke up again. "You can set up the supplies I brought," she said, and Alfred frowned.

"What good will that do? We're no doctors," he asked.

"Call it a motherly instinct. We do not yet know if he requires a doctor," Elizaveta countered, and she nodded towards the blanket, pillow, and fabric laid beside the door. "The bucket is near the faucet outside," she offered, "use the fabric as a rag for cold water."

Left with no choice but to heed Elizaveta's instructions, Alfred walked past the cellar and opened the back door to where a wooden bucket awaited. He filled it half way with water and carried it back inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. Before he could go and set it beside Arthur's door, however, Elizaveta waved him over and told him to set the bucket beside the fireplace, where it would warm just a little by the time Arthur woke up. Alfred followed what she said, setting the bucket down before striking flint and lighting the hearth. After adjusting a few embers and wood, he leaned back and pushed the metal bucket so that it was off to the far side.

And he waited.

The sun had long since risen and the streets were filling with more than just early rising craftsmen when Alfred decided to check up on Arthur again. Elizaveta had left, headed for the market, only minutes prior and Alfred was both left with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

He slowly pushed the door open, expecting to see Arthur in the same position as he had left him, but was surprised to find that sometime earlier the man had rolled onto his back and draped an arm over his eyes. Alfred retreated to get the bucket – which was still cold, but not as frigid as it originally had been – and supplies, finally closing the bedroom door behind him and slightly shivering at the change in air temperature. The entire time, the room had been closed off to the rising hearth, and Alfred had gotten used to its warmth from sitting directly in front of it all morning. The room itself had no fireplace, which Alfred suddenly found ridiculous, as no one normally used it for more than a single night. It occurred to him then that Arthur really would need a new place to stay during the winter.

The colonist frowned at the state of the covers, which had been messy shoved half onto the floor, and moved to fix them. The night must have been chill without them, especially considering that Arthur had no shirt on at all. It was thanks to the lord that at least he wore his long johns. Alfred picked up the edge of the thin undercover and threw it over Arthur's bare body, and it was only then that he took a second to be fully surprised at Arthur's own torso. He had not noticed it before, as Arthur was laying on his stomach and the night before had been dark and full of events, but Arthur was well toned. Alfred was too, of course, given that he had been a farmer before and it was not like him to simply break the habit of hard working, but Arthur's skin was pale – as if it were porcelain – and it made it appear as if Arthur was some figure carved into stone. A Greek statue, perhaps. His arms, which did not appear muscular in any way when wearing his long sleeved garments, were actually worked as well – likely from the stress that was put on them from work as a soldier. But as the cover fell onto his elbows, Arthur let out a groan, and Alfred's eyes darted away from his abdomen to focus on the way Arthur's eyebrows scrunched up over his eyes in discomfort.

"Arthur?" Alfred tried, and he was answered by another groan as Arthur attempted to roll back onto his stomach while simultaneously kicking the lone cover off of his body. "I take it that you're awake."

"Unwillingly so," Arthur mumbled from his sleep patterned mouth. Alfred smiled, though he could not entirely place why.

"Trust me, I do not like waking up, either," Alfred replied, and he unrolled the small bundle of fabric, dunking half of it into the bucket and wringing out the excess water.

"Yes, yes," Arthur dismissed, "in that case, may I go back to sleep?"

"No," Alfred retorted, and Arthur opened his eyes in surprise, only to get his shoulder prodded. Dazed, he turned onto his back, as that was what Alfred seemed to be commanding him to do, and his vision was only just becoming comprehensible by the time a cold sensation was draped over his forehead. After tensing up at the initial temperature shock, Alfred watched as Arthur slowly sunk back into the covers with a content sigh.

"That feel good?" Alfred asked, and Arthur shot him a look that reminded Alfred of Elizaveta's when she thought he was being stupid. Rolling his eyes again, Alfred began to tug the covers back onto Arthur, but Arthur, if doing nothing else, fought – fought by thrashing his legs.

"Bloody hell, you will not dare!" he protested, stilling only when Alfred dropped the covers with a frown.

"Are you insane? It's cold in here," Alfred stated.

"If it were cold, I am quite sure I would feel it!" Arthur retorted, "it's rather warm."

Arthur could not understand Alfred's concerned gaze, so he resorted to the one thing he knew well – he glared. Alfred, on the other hand, could not understand why he was being glared at. "What?" he asked, huffing. "I become concerned of your wellbeing, and you glare at me as if I wish to court your daughter."

"I can tell you that I have no daughter," Arthur replied curtly, and Alfred only shrugged.

"Son, then," said Alfred, before frowning, "is that even possible, for a man to court a man?"

"It is very well possible," Arthur snapped, and Alfred jumped a little, startled. "And I have no son, either. Nor do I have a wife."

There was a beat of silence as Alfred tried to level that information with what he knew. "No family?" he inquired again, though hesitantly, "but you're in the colonies. Surely you should already have a family back home? Won't you be too old when you are sent to England?"

Arthur drew in a sharp breath, and Alfred thought for a second that he might have gone too far. "Precisely," was only what he said, though, and at Alfred's bemused stare, he elaborated with, "I am in the colonies, and I am to stay in the colonies until there is no more trouble. Clearly, that will not happen for a while. Therefore, what good is it to a family if I am only to widow them?"

"But soldiers can have families, can't they?" Alfred pressed, and at Arthur's stiff nod, continued, "why didn't you get a family before?"

"I did not want one!" Arthur finally snapped, silencing the colonist in the room with him. "Is it a crime for a woman to not have interested me?"

Alfred bit his lip, causing the discussion to drop for only a few brief seconds. "Didn't you get an arranged marriage?"

"Enlisted," Arthur answered. "I enlisted before we were married."

Slowly, Alfred shifted his seated position at the foot of the bed, nudging himself backwards until he was leaning against the head rest and staring at the opposite wall. Arthur shot him an annoyed glance. "I'm sorry," Alfred said, and Arthur's annoyed expression melted away into one part confusion and another part surprise.

"That—" he cleared his throat, "That's alright." The silence after that was comfortable, something that Arthur almost did not want broken, but there was a question scratching at his mind. He opened his mouth, about to voice it, before realising what sort of question it exactly was. It was a personal question, entirely unbefitting of a man and his host. It was a question that was strictly unprofessional and was never discussed, so he kept quiet. But Alfred noticed.

"What were you going to say?" Alfred inquired, staring straight down at Arthur's conflicted expression. Not having realised that Alfred had been watching him, Arthur jumped. He slowly sat up in the bed so that Alfred and he were seated side by side.

"It's inappropriate," Arthur responded, dismissing the question all together, though it seemed as though Alfred would not have that.

"Oh, leave it," Alfred said, "I'm sure we have already spoken of many topics society considers inappropriate."

Arthur had to give it to Alfred for observation.

"Ah, well," Arthur said, clearing his throat and lifting his chin, stubbornly staring at the opposing wall that Alfred was staring at. "Say, are you – uh, and Elizaveta… happy, together?"

Needless to say, Arthur could tell that he surprised Alfred with that question.

"Oh," Alfred said lamely, squinting in concentration but only appearing as if something minuscular and fascinating was on the wall, "well, we're certainly happy, but we aren't romantic, per say," he said. "It's more as if we are best friends, playing a theatre role as a couple together, just for the world to see – but in private, all we do is jest about the lines."

Arthur took a deep breath. "That is certainly a poetic way to put it all."

"Well, I have never been called poetic," Alfred said with a sudden grin, throwing Arthur off guard, "but I suppose you can say that."

It was a long time, sitting in companionable silence. The pillow and blanket had been all but abandoned on the floor, and the towel had long since dripped cold water down Arthur's face and gotten the sheets wet by the time Alfred was reevaluating their entire conversation and had stumbled upon something that had a curious frown replace his former content smile. "Arthur?" he asked, and Arthur hummed his acknowledgement, shifting his torso to the side so that he could look at the tavern owner. "Do you not like women?"

Arthur sputtered indignantly, his neck slowly reddening. "Well, I'll say that this topic has _certainly _breached even the inappropriate barrier—"

Alfred groaned, and Arthur had to remember that the tavern keeper appeared to be younger than Arthur was, and Arthur blamed Alfred's lack of knowledge on social etiquette on just that. "What? I have a friend by the name of Kiku, and he has never had any romantic interest for any person in his entire life. I'm certain there was a name for it, but I don't remember. He's your elder."

Arthur paused, before sighing. "I—I don't know," he finally muttered. "I have never been interested in a woman, no, if that is your question." The Englishman shifted uncomfortably, but before he could get off the bed in an attempt to escape the conversation, Alfred was suddenly – and literally – in his face.

"What is that like?" Alfred demanded, and Arthur reared his head back with wide eyes, pinning himself to the head rest as he tried to put some distance between he and the other man.

"What is what like?" he nearly shouted, wide eyes narrowing into confused glare.

"What is not liking women like?" Alfred repeatedly.

"I—uh," Arthur cleared his throat again, and Alfred found it amusing at how often the other man did that. "It's… not finding women an attractive partner? I mean," he reached a hand back to scratch at his neck, "say, a man points out a beautiful woman beside you, and all you think about is that she seems like a friendly character and you turn back around, while such men as the first continue to stare at her."

Alfred frowned. "Really?" he said, before looking thoughtful. "How is that possible? A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman, how could anyone not stare?"

Arthur shrugged uncomfortably. "I find her beautiful, but besides that, she is not normally interesting in a way other than the fact."

As Alfred's back slouched again and the sheets on the ground became a new target for him to stare at, Arthur coughed to get the other man's attention. "You don't find that… bizarre?"

"Eh?" Alfred muttered, still lost in thought, before snapping back to focus on the Englishman. "Oh, no," he assured, "why should I? It _is _odd, and it _is _strange, but I'm not unused to it. Besides," he smiled, "you're a good man. What your personal life is should not make you a bizarre man."

Alfred swung his legs over the edge of the bed and plucked the drying towel off of Arthur's forehead, dunking it in the water once more and wringing it out before giving it back to Arthur. He then made Arthur move so that Alfred could stack the soft, comfortable pillow from home over the stiffer and unused pillow of the bed. Finally, Alfred threw the blanket Elizaveta had brought, a soft and long one Alfred normally used underneath his winter covers, at Arthur's chest. Before Arthur could protest, Alfred spoke up, "Elizaveta went through the library of carrying all of this with us for you," he said. "Despite what you may claim, you are clearly sick and need the additional treatment."

Quick, Alfred could see Arthur's expression distort in displeasure, so he decided to finally, _finally, _ask the question that had been on his mind all day and all night in a method to change the subject.

Alfred sat back down on the foot of the bed and smiled at Arthur, his smile only growing as Arthur's displeasure turned into outright puzzlement. Then, "so, tell me about your brother."

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><p><strong>AN: This chapter turned out way longer than I was intending. I was supposed to be asleep by midnight! Hell, it's 1:10AM! I have to wake up soon. Someone shoot me.**

**Well, I was hoping to have a lot more go on during this chapter, but apparently, fate decided to screw with me. Be mad at fate, not me, for such a boring chapter.**

_**Nowadays, we forget a lot about 'manners'. At least, in most countries we do. Back then, though, it was considered completely inappropriate, wrong, and unheard of to ask about someone's love life. Even these days, that's super personal. You shouldn't go around asking people that, so technically, this isn't entirely history. Now, think about that these days, times it by ten, and you have the way people reacted. Times that by two and you have that era's British reaction - behold, Arthur.**_

_**In other words, Alfred just doesn't have manners. **_

_**ALSO; I probably should have made Alfred absolutely freak and call Arthur a strange creature of inhumanity for him not seeming to like women (hell, that's strange to me - men are just not my thing), on top of not having a family, but keep in mind that you can imagine whatever you want to imagine Alfred's reaction was towards Kiku not liking women. Clearly, he's had time to adjust. NOTE: Alfred did NOT ask if Arthur liked MEN, he asked whether or not he liked WOMEN. There's such thing as being asexual (that would be Kiku in this story).**_

_*gay means happy, because I know a lot of you probably went, "What? Elizaveta knows Alfred is gay? Wait, of course she does. She's Elizaveta."_

**Hope you enjoyed Chapter 6 - see you guys soon!**


	7. Individuality

**Assert your individuality as who you are, not who you're made to be.**

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><p>Arthur really did not appreciate the suddenly popular topic of his personal life.<p>

At all.

Why was Alfred so interested, anyway? Never in Arthur's life had he encountered such questions about himself, let alone by the man who was supposed to be resentful of him. But Alfred stared at him with such a sincere smile that Arthur could only squint in confusion and answer his question. What else was there to do? "Which one?" he asked.

"Dylan," Alfred answered without hesitation, before looking as if he regretted being so blunt. He could see from the corner of his eye as Arthur's eyes widened and his hand clenched into a fist.

No. The interest was too suspicious. "Why would you like to know?" Arthur nearly growled out, and Alfred's smile dropped, startled as he was by Arthur's tone of voice.

"You—uh, you mentioned him. When you were drunk," Alfred said hurriedly, hoping not to make the bad situation any worse. Arthur relaxed only by the slightest bit.

Arthur seemed to think about his answer before replying. "He is a nice man," he said stiffly. "The brother that was kindest to me. Out of everyone in the family, I got along with him the most."

Alfred's eyes gestured for him to continue, but Alfred himself did not say a word. "He – he also looked the most akin to me. Hair far more pale, eyes a sliver more dull, and with the addition of an abundance of freckles, but otherwise, he and I were alike. All of my other kin, save for Peter, have red hair."

"Were?" Alfred asked softly, and he knew what would come next, but he had to confirm it. He had to confirm that Arthur had mistaken him for his diseased brother.

Arthur fidgeted. "He always spoke my brothers into letting me breathe when they enjoyed drowning me. In the end, however, on service as part of the Royal Navy, he drowned in Indian waters," Arthur elaborated. "No one knows what happened to the ship."

"I offer my sympathies," Alfred said, albeit a slight bit awkwardly. Arthur curtly nodded before sucking in a breath and seeming to clear his head, focusing his attention back on Alfred.

"Why?" was all that Arthur asked, but Alfred knew what he meant.

"You mistook me for him," Alfred briefly explained. "Last night, I brought you into this room, but you – you gripped me, and asked what I, Dylan, was doing there." Not the entire truth, but it would have to do. Arthur slowly digested that information with a frown.

"I do not remember a thing," the Englishman claimed, and Alfred sighed, giving a lazy shrug.

"You were not expected to," said the colonist, straightening his back. "Say, do you have training?"

"I have all month," Arthur answered, more than grateful for the change in subject. "But today, I was told to take off and rest."

"Oh?" Alfred commented, bending down near the foot of the bed to lift the bucket off the ground, standing back up. "Why is that?"

It was then that Arthur got sheepish, and he tilted his neck to the side as if searching for a way to describe. "I was challenged to a duel," he said, and when Alfred's eyes shot up to him in alarm, he quickly explained, "not of that sort! A sword fight, of the kind which no one is killed." When Alfred relaxed again, he went on. "It was with an officer of high class. He requested me to help him demonstrate something he was to teach, and that dissolved into a sword duel." Arthur then smiled proudly, and Alfred had to smile with him, as it was hard for that rare sign of happiness and pride to not be contagious. "Hah, I won," Arthur said with a chuckle.

Arthur found that he rather enjoyed seeing the first, and brief, sign of admiration on Alfred's face. But as quick as it had come, it had gone. "Really?" Alfred asked, as if he were a child readying himself for storytelling, and Arthur fought the urge he had to turn his smile into an outright grin.

"Yes, really," Arthur confirmed, and Alfred laughed happily.

"Well, you, sir, are a true role model," Alfred exclaimed, gripping the bucket handle tightly and running from the room. The door swung open, and Arthur could see the tavern containing only one man eating a breakfast meal. He finished and Alfred wasted no time in relieving him of his plate. By the time the man had left the tavern, Arthur discovered as he slowly got up and walked to the door, Alfred had deposited the bucket somewhere and ran to the door to flip the sign that showed the tavern was open to 'closed'.

That was when Arthur realised he was hardly wearing any clothes.

It was completely inappropriate to be in company in only his long johns! Arthur's face was ember hot as he slammed the bedroom door shut and groaned at the fact that he had just had a serious conversation with his host, the man he was to make a very good impression towards as Arthur would surely be staying a while, only clothed in his long johns.

Someone grab a musket and shoot him.

He had not noticed at all, for his slightly fever induced mind had heated his body so that it felt as if he were clothed. He had not even bothered to check. But the heated main room of the tavern, with its large and circulating hearth, had contrasted against his skin and rapidly made it apparent that that was, in fact, merely skin.

Thank god Arthur had been wearing long johns at all, though. He was always to wear them to training, and clearly had not had time to take them off. Which made him notice, though for only a second, that he had no killing hangover headache. Why, it felt like he had not drank much at all. How strange – perhaps he really was sick, as Alfred had said, and had only felt extremely drunk the night before by the aid of being ill?

Deciding that it was easier to simply dismiss the entire situation from his mind, Arthur began rummaging around for his clothing when Alfred knocked on the door. "Arthur?" Alfred asked, his voice muffled through the wood.

"I am searching for clothing!" Arthur shouted through the door, feeling the heat return to his cheeks and his neck as he remembered that Alfred would hardly be bothered, considering he had already seen the man.

"Oh, in that case," Alfred called again through the door, "don the clothing you wore the other night, when we found each other on the street."

Arthur halted his movements with a frown, "how come?"

But Alfred offered no explanation, and his footsteps could be heard retreating from the door. Deciding that Arthur would rather not confront him undressed to demand the occasion, the Englishman did as he was requested and fished the brown britches first from the intricately carved movable closet beside the bed. He quickly put that on, next locating his knee high socks and using those to cover the bottoms of his long johns, covering the tops with the bottoms of his britches. Arthur's shirt and vest came after that, and soon he was opening the bedroom door and confronting a curiously empty tavern at mid-day, with a certain tavern keeper laying in front of the fire with his arms behind his head.

He slowly walked towards Alfred, stopping right beside his head. Alfred's eyes were closed, but he slowly grinned as Arthur approached. Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "And?" Arthur prompted, causing Alfred's eyes to snap open. Without waiting for Arthur to so much as breathe, he jumped to his feet and raced for the tavern door, casting a glance behind him to where Arthur stood looking bewildered.

"Well?" Alfred said, before the door shut behind him. Arthur stared at the door as it swung closed for a second before he rushed to follow, slipping on his shoes awkwardly as he went.

Alfred laughed at Arthur's rushing figure from the street corner, only a little ways down from the tavern entrance. The cobblestone clicked beneath Arthur's feet as he caught up with the man, giving him the firmest reprimanding look he could manage. "Is it really wise to be out and about?" Arthur asked, and at Alfred's confused look, he elaborated with, "those who are sick should be bedridden."

Alfred gave him a mischievous grin. "Would you rather be bedridden?"

At Arthur's silence, he gave out another bark of laughter and started down the street.

"Well, where are we headed?" Arthur asked as an attempt to change the subject, shivering at the sudden chill presented by the early autumn air.

"I have not an idea," answered Alfred, with that ever present grin of his, and Arthur was almost starting to wish that they were back to the depressing subjects so that he would just quit it.

Arthur scowled. "Then what was the bloody point in guiding me outdoors?" he demanded.

Alfred completely ignored him, and Arthur was about to demand that he answer his question until he realised that Alfred was waving at someone. "Edward!" he shouted, and shouted again, finally drawing the attention of a young man/late teenager on a horse drawn vehicle similar to that which Alfred used. The difference was, however, the multiple boxes at the back, behind where the blonde haired and blue eyed lanky boy sat. When the boy finally pulled slowly over to the side of the street and stopped, Alfred put an arm on the edge of the seat. "Have you gotten any mail for me?"

The supposed mail boy dropped the reins of his horse and reached toward the back, grabbing a bundle of paper and scanning whatever was on the sheet. "Yes, actually," he answered, glancing at the paper again, before reaching for the box nearest to him and dragging it closer. He swiftly lifted the lid and sifted through the envelopes there, before bringing out a single envelope and presenting it to Alfred without fanfare.

"Thank you, Edward," Alfred thanked, and Edward offered a shrug and the smallest of smiles.

"Certainly," he replied, reaching for the reins of his horse and urging it on, giving only a brief wave and the nod of his head towards the two men as he travelled down the street.

Arthur peered over Alfred's shoulder to look at the envelope. "Who is that addressed from?" he asked, and Alfred flipped the envelope over and over again, as if searching for the name, before discovering it scrawled along the edge.

"Gilbert," he answered, even though Arthur was sure that the handwriting of that name was in no way legible. "He has always signed his name oddly, and in a different position every time." Arthur gave him a strange look, but Alfred only shrugged it off and pocketed the small envelope, beginning to move again. Arthur followed. "How long have you been in the colonies?"

Arthur did not answer, and when Alfred discovered that, he turned in concern, only to find that Arthur had completely stopped beside the staircase of a townhouse and was giving him a look that suggested Alfred was insane. "I am beginning to second guess your motives for wanting to know," Arthur stated bluntly, and Alfred nearly gaped.

They began to move again when someone accidently shoved into Arthur. "Is it a crime to be curious?" Alfred asked, a tint overdramatically.

"Curiousity killed the cat," was only what Arthur offered.

"And satisfaction brought it back," quipped Alfred, reciting the lesser known part of the phrase.

Arthur scowled again.

Alfred only looked at Arthur expectantly, though, and with a stubborn huff of air, Arthur replied to his question. "I have been here since September 10"

Arthur thought that it was becoming a quickly tiring pattern on how Alfred stared at him after nearly every word which escaped the Englishman's mouth.

"You have hardly been here for a month, then?" Alfred exclaimed, aghast, before realising another fact. "That was the day before you came to my tavern."

"Yes," Arthur confirmed with a firm look to Alfred's unending display of expressions. "Is that so odd? Where else was I to stay – aboard the ship, after it had docked at port?"

Alfred did not have an answer to that, so he decided to merely shake his head in disbelief and take off running. With an exclamation of surprise and displeasure, as Alfred knew Arthur would do, Arthur matched his speed as Alfred quickly speed-walked down a few twists and turns and ended up at the outskirts of the city again. He really was not a city person if he could not remain in the city itself for more than a half a day, was he?

"Where are you from, Arthur?" Alfred asked again by the time the two had approached a road that finally dissolved into a trail. Arthur looked around suspiciously, and multiple times Alfred spot him stop and observe their surroundings, as if forcefully inking it into his mind. He looked cautious, and Alfred briefly wondered if Arthur thought he might have been kidnapping him.

"London," Arthur answered absentmindedly, having switched to observing the foot of a tree where a chipmunk stared in wonder. "Born and raised."

"You have never travelled?" Alfred inquired, and Arthur shrugged as the chipmunk dashed higher into the branches.

"I have never been of the type to enjoy travel," he said. He frowned then, and Alfred could almost feel a pang for him at the statement. Clearly, he was not enjoying being so far from home.

Alfred could not imagine anything near that.

He had never been out of the colonies. Before marrying Elizaveta, he rarely had even been out of his own colony, or his own little farm. Alfred was not the one an ocean away from his home. Arthur seemed to realise that, as his feet dragged the slightest bit more and he stopped observing his surroundings, as if he had completely lost the motive and fascination in order to bother.

Alfred refused to let that bring him down. They were treading on a trail worn into the soil by plenty of horse hooves and feet, and it wound its way around a lake that could just barely be seen past the cluster of bushes on Alfred's left. He had no idea what England was like, but from the few stories he had heard by word of redcoat, he knew that London was certain a city. A large city. Apparently, a larger city that he had ever seen.

The trail curved away from the lake, headed towards the northern New England colonies, and as Arthur instinctively began heading that way, Alfred grabbed his arm. Arthur looked up from the ground that he had targeted for his absentminded eyes and glanced inquiringly Alfred's way, but Alfred was not looking at him. Instead, Alfred began to lead Arthur the opposite direction of the bend in the road, towards what only appeared to be a wall of brambles. Surprisingly, Arthur did not say a word, and the silence was only broken by Alfred's voice. "You are going to get your feet snagged on, but pay them no mind," he advised. "They don't tear through the fabric."

Arthur nodded, for once still keeping quiet, as Alfred ungracefully stomped through the brambles and branches and feebly attempted parting the way for Arthur to follow. Arthur, on the other hand, was entirely used to the environment already, due to marching with his troops, and he only swatted Alfred's hand away and kept on perfectly fine.

When the two had cleared the bushes, Arthur's throat was caught of air and he could just see Alfred's victorious grin.

The lake was not that large. He could see to the other side, but the other side only held a vast farming field bordered by glistening rocks, and Arthur just barely managed to prevent himself from falling as he slowly slipped down the smooth boulders where he stood and got to the edge of the water. The water itself sluggishly lapped up to his toes, but Arthur paid them no mind, simply practicing himself to stare as far as the eye could possibly see, and only trying to see farther.

"It is amazing, isn't it?" Alfred asked. Oh, Alfred had been there plenty of times, and he had been to plenty of places like it before, but living for his short time in the city, he clearly understood that if Arthur had been born and raised in a city such as London – there was no way that Arthur was used to it all.

"I have never—,"Arthur paused, as if reevaluating his words. "There are places like this in England," he said instead, before continuing. "But I have never left far from London."

Alfred cast him an odd glance. "Surely, you would have run out of what to do in London, and ventured off?" he asked. But Arthur only shook his head.

"London is filthy, and it is big, and there is a part of it that is horribly poor. That part is not where I belong, I belong where you might say the 'middle class' would be; but that is not within the outskirts," Arthur explained, before his eyebrows furrowed together and his voice grew slower. "Land is expensive, unobtainable by any usual folk and not even thought to be reached. We live in a city if we want work," he said, and then added, "That is why we move to the colonies. Land, and the idea of a new life.

"That is why you live, or formerly lived, on a farm. Your ancestors are British – you may claim what you wish to claim, but those before you came from Great Britain, and if I may say, there is a high chance they came from a city. They came because they were offered land, as long as they were to work on it. Many times, free land," Arthur finished. "We do not have that."

"Ah," Alfred hummed, quietly, looking back over the water. His fingers were tucked underneath the slaps of his vest as they only stood there, getting bitten by the abrupt autumn cold. But Arthur had to ask something, and from his mind it would not leave.

"Why does no one wish to quarter a soldier?" he asked, and Alfred looked at him, surprised by the out of place question. When he was about to answer, Arthur interrupted him. "I have heard your reasoning, but Boston refuses to quarter us still. What is so bad? What are they doing to their livelihood that causes them to act as if we are about to take everything away?" Arthur sounded genuinely confused. "Am I doing something wrong?" he turned to Alfred, "why do you approve of me, but no one else? Is it only another way to rebel, or perhaps, something deeper?"

Alfred's mouth only remained a sliver open, as if he were still about to say something, but nothing got out.

"Is it not an honour to give room for a soldier to simply sleep?" Arthur went on, and finally, that was the question that gave Alfred room to say something.

"No, it is not," Alfred said bluntly, and he heard Arthur suck in a breath as he stared at the way the sun cast a glimmer of white over the lake's surface. "Why even remotely care for a people who are treating us unjustly?"

There was that word again. Justice.

"Unjustly!" Arthur cried in indignation. "What, pray tell, what is it that you find so unjust, when those taxes that every person here speaks of is far less than any amount of taxes that have ever been given to the citizens of mainland Great Britain, themselves?"

Alfred's mind was confused at the new information, unwilling to believe it, at the same time that his temper flared. In the end, his temper won. "But your citizens there are used to it!" Alfred exclaimed. "They have lived their entire lives succumbing to those taxes, and they have the representatives – the choice – of those taxes. Where is our choice? Where is our say? And why," Alfred took a deep breath, "why on earth do you tax us _now? _Out of all of this time we have remained to fend for ourselves, you assert your place with us _now?_"

*"Great Britain is suffering losses from the war that was played for _you,_" Arthur practically growled. "The least that you can do is repay, in the smallest of amount, the damage that you helped cause."

Alfred glared with an intensity he believed he had never glared before, but he did not say a word. Too many protests and thoughts and claims were flying through his head that he did not dare attempt to place them into words. But his silence allowed Arthur to smugly smile at the water, certain that he had won, and Alfred found that he would prove to Arthur that Arthur had not won.

Alfred was the one who would win in the end.

"Besides," Arthur spoke after a beat of silence again, a silence that had been filled with what could have only been his mental victorious cheer. "If I am so hated by you, if you are so against me, then why do you associate with me any more than what is expected of you? In fact, far more than you need?"

But Alfred did not know the answer to that one, either. Instead, he shrugged, and he hoped it did not appear as awkward as he truly felt. Slowly, he willed his anger from before to melt away again, and it took a good number of minutes until he felt he was ready to talk without blowing up in Arthur's face. "You personally have not done anything to harm me or my family," Alfred factually stated, and Arthur huffed.

"Then what is so wrong with me?" he inquired.

"Nothing," Alfred quipped back. "You as an individual, I have nothing against. Odd and strange as you may be, a man who does not look twice at a beautiful woman or a man who mistakes his host for his diseased brother, you still cause no mental or bodily harm which I can see, and therefore, there is nothing wrong here."

Arthur thought that Alfred would not say that if Alfred had asked whether or not he would look twice at a beautiful man.

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><p><strong>AN: I'm so sorry guys! I updated about half a day late to what I normally update. Last night was way too huge of an emotional rollercoaster to bother focusing on finishing the chapter (which was literally a few hundred words of being done, augh), and I pretty much passed out and woke up at 5PM. The one thing I have learnt out of all of this is that my sleeping schedule is royally screwed over.**

_*I'm pretty sure I've explained most of everything that is going on, but right here, the war that Arthur is talking is the war mentioned in the first sentence of this entire fic. The French and Indian War as it's called in America, but the Seven Years War as it is called in Europe. I don't know a large amount about the French and Indian War, other than that British troops were sent over to the American colonies to protect the colonies against the French over there and the Indians, who had allied together (hence the name). But the war, no matter what it was called, brought a huge loss to Britain, and afterwards, the colonies were more heavily taxed in order to help pay for the losses of Great Britain. Parliament had thought that the colonies would be fine with getting taxed in order to help pay for the war, since they had been helped in the war as well and contributed towards Great Britain's losses, but they were certainly not at all. This was one reason why they were taxed in the first place._

**As a note, I've been thinking about moving updates to once every two days (every other day). The reason for this is that I have discovered I may or may not have a life other than waking up in the evening and writing until sunrise. However, you can forever be sure that I will, for this fanfiction, update a chapter within the week, no matter what I decide to do down the line. I completely doubt this will stretch into the school year, after all. **


	8. Kill The Director

**If you want an easy way out of something, kill the problem.**

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><p>It was already evening when Elizaveta was cleaning the bar counter of meals and she discovered the brown leather jacket of her spouse laid haphazardly on one of the stools. As she quickly moved to scoop it up, however, and toss it on a coat rack for when they retired for the night, a flash of white falling from the pocket caught her attention, and she bent to pick it up. Instantly, Elizaveta recognised the sloppy handwriting.<p>

"Alfred?" she called, over the general hubbub and background drop of men filtering into the tavern for a drink. Alfred himself was seated at a table with a strange looking, probably eastern, man who Elizaveta vaguely recalled has friendship ties with her husband. Said man looked up and caught her green eyes with his blue. Raising her eyebrows, Elizaveta held up the letter, not bothering to try and explain over the voices of everyone else in the room. Alfred's eyes instantly lit up in recognition and he tried gesturing her over, but at that same moment a beer bellied man from the other end of the counter whistled for her attention and shouted the name of that night's destined drink.

Sighing, Alfred stood up from his seat and jogged lightly over to his wife, followed by the eastern man of short cut thick black hair. The eastern man was given plenty of looks and strange glances from the people at the bar, but he had gotten used to it and paid them no mind. "Mind telling me when it was you received a letter from Gilbert?" Elizaveta greeted, sliding a beer over to the aforementioned beer belly.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "When I recalled the event," he quipped back matter-of-factly, causing Elizaveta to sigh with a small smile on her lips.

"Of course," she settled, walking over and leaning over the counter to where Alfred sat on a stool, his friend – Kiku, Elizaveta remembered – loitering just off to the side. "Well, what does it say?"

The blue-eyed man shrugged as he carefully took the letter out of its envelope and set the envelope on the counter, his eyes skipping and scanning quickly over the page. Elizaveta's mood slowly dropped in concern as she saw the multitude of expressions fly over his face. Kiku, who was in the line of sight to read as well but did not out of respect, was also watching Alfred's face. Unlike Elizaveta, though, his own face was constantly passive, and no change in his emotion was shown.

Slowly, Alfred slipped the letter back into the envelope, and Elizaveta took it, shooting Alfred a glance, and wordlessly tucked it underneath the counter where she would be able to find it again later. "House of Burgesses dissolved," Alfred said conversationally, as if it were merely an interesting fact, and Elizaveta frowned. "You would think that the British become tired of dissolving so many meetings, yes?"

"Why?" she asked, interrupting what could only be Alfred's coming rant. But before Alfred could respond, Kiku butt in.

"Protestation," he said, but when he realised that Alfred had been about to answer, his cheeks reddened and he lowered his head for Alfred to go on. But Alfred only shook his own head and gestured for Kiku to continue, favouring to instead lay his chin on his crossed arms over the counter. "The King plans to transport colonists accused of treason to England for trial."

"Do you know why?" Alfred abruptly spoke, throwing Kiku off guard and causing him to fidget the slightest bit, the only sign that he was flustered. "It is because the King does not wish to bother with a fair trial, that's why!" he slammed his palms against the wood. "Treason? What treason has anyone done? Throw a rock at a man?"

Kiku frowned, but no one stopped Alfred as he stood up and propped a leg on the stool he was formerly seated upon in frustration. He gestured wildly. "If you take a man with the petty excuse of having committed treason, he is spending months and months in terribly conditions on the sea, and then," Alfred paused for effect, staring his wife directly in the eye. "And then, he is hung! What fair trial would the King give? He would not!"

Elizaveta was about to speak, but Alfred held up his hand. "Wait, no, I apologise," he said submissively, sighing in mock apology, "he is not necessarily _hung. _Ah, that's correct, he could be _beheaded, _too. Always must have variety, yes?"

Then, Alfred shoved his leg off of the stool and headed for the door, intent on leaving, but Elizaveta had gathered her voice. "Surely, there must be a reason?" she called to her husband, frowning. "How else would Parliament agree?"

Alfred spun around and spread his arms wide. "How would Parliament agree to anything?" he said, eyes wide and voice lifted in the most theatric of ways. He turned around to look at the room, most of which having focused their attention on the arguement that was sure to erupt. "Pray tell, if Parliament was so just, why would they agree, _or create, _say, taxation without representation? The Quartering Act? And _how_, in God's name" – the door behind Alfred creaked open, he could hear it in the slowly quieting room and only then realised how loud and dramatic his voice had gotten, but he could hardly care at that moment – "had they assumed that _speaking one's mind _in considered worthy of _death?"_

Alfred full heartedly expected Elizaveta to answer in a fiery manner. He could see it in her eyes, and he knew that Elizaveta was a woman of high pride who would not ever back down from a fight, even if she were fighting on a side that she did not necessarily believe in. But as she braced her arms straight on the edges of the counter, he could see her eyes so prepared for a verbal war widen a fraction in alarm, and Alfred noticed it too late. When Alfred assumed that Elizaveta had spoken, her mouth did not move.

"And _when,_ in God's name, did _speaking one's mind _happen in the acts of _violence _and blatant disrespect, dishonour, and opposition of the _King, _himself?"

Alfred whirled around to see the sight of a nearly livid Arthur, red coat perched neatly – as always – on his frame, though dirtied and off-white where it should have been pure from colour. His hand clenched the door angrily, and his teeth were grit, his jaw set, as if Alfred's words were a personal offence to himself. Arthur's hair was messy, as it always was, wild swept to the side of his face, revealing completely one glittering eye. His skin was more pale than usual, but the tip of his nose, ears, and cheekbones were a sharp red in contrast, due to the biting cold from the outside air.

Alfred was shocked to find that Arthur was in uniform at all. Arthur should have been in bed, as that was where Alfred expected him to be. A sick man should be bedridden and stay there until he was well again. Alfred himself might have been concerned – only if Arthur were not wearing that blasted red coat that seemed to Alfred to be causing all of the problems in the first place.

"When the King deserves it," Alfred spat back, and it felt as if the entire room itself had taken a silent gulp of air.

Arthur, for the slightest moment, did not seem to know how to react. But then he raised his chin and spoke in a dangerously low tone. "So the King deserves treason?" he said, and by the tone of voice, Alfred knew that he was treading in unknown territory. There was a pause in the air, and it was only broken by oblivious drunks in the corner, as night had fallen already for hours.

"No," Alfred finally said, and he felt like his throat was betraying his thoughts. Yes. The King deserved to be overthrown. He deserved treason. "I am merely saying that those men have not committed treason."

It was an answer that treaded on the fence. It was unbalanced and unstable and wobbly. It could have tipped either directions, and Arthur seemed to think that it had tipped and fallen on the wrong side of the bed.

The rest of the room did not, though. Most of the room remained, their eyes fixated on the two in an eager show to drink in any drama, any gossip, that they were offered, but many turned away once they realised that there would be nothing to report that night. The crazy tavern keeper would not have enough evidence or enough words against him to be thrown for treason.

Alfred felt two pairs of eyes glued onto him.

"If they have not committed treason, then they will not be sentenced to death," Arthur said in a voice that finalised the discussion, signalled the arguement to end, but Alfred did not believe as Arthur did. Alfred believed that the conversation had certainly not come to an end. Arthur began walking away and as Alfred turned to continue facing him, he could see the livid warning glare that Elizaveta was casting him.

He decided to ignore it for the first time.

"Why would the King bother? What does the King care?" Alfred challenged, seeing Arthur freeze. "What should it matter to the King a handful of colonists from a colony that does not care for him, enough that he go out of his way to retrieve evidence that might take months to reach him?" the colonist said, forcing his nerves to calm and to stare at the back of Arthur's neck steadily, refusing to back down.

Arthur did not turn around. "The King will give them a fair trial?"

"Oh? And explain to me – why?" Alfred persisted, taking a step forward to close the distance between him and the redcoat. Elizaveta walked slowly around the island counter, approaching the two. She stood between them, but roughly a metre or so away, watching the proceedings with worried eyes.

"Parliament understands that if we kept the treasonous here, we might be in danger of mobs who protest the trial's outcome. They may harm us," Arthur insisted.

"Are people not allowed to oppose the death of their family and friends?" Alfred took another step forward.

"Does our safety not matter?" Arthur growled.

"Does their life not matter enough to be decided by a fair trial?"

Kiku joined Elizaveta's side.

Arthur changed tactics. "They are British citizens, therefore, they will be tried in Britain. That is only logical," he said loudly, his voice demanding of respect, and Alfred might have given it if it were not for that voice's next words. "It will be a fair trial, as the King cares for all of his such citizens."

"You're believing in lies," Alfred scoffed, and Arthur spun around as if he were about to attack, one hand curled into a fist, but when Alfred only stood there, Arthur hesitated. He slowly lowered his hand.

Then, before Alfred could speak again, Arthur walked to the bar and ordered a drink without saying another word.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

_The House of Burgesses was in Virginia, and was the first legislative assembly of the colonies. _

_One line of the Declaration of Independence states, "He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people." 'He' refers to the King. Many times before the Revolutionary War, when Houses would come together to protest, go against, or otherwise oppose what the King had ordered or was doing, he would just dissolve the assembly and say that they weren't allowed to do that. The colonies clearly were not okay with that, and for that reason, the United States Constitution states that every person has the 'right to assemble', meaning that the government of the United States can never dissolve an assembly for opposing what the government does (unless it starts/causes a riot or is violent in any way)._

**Well, what side are you guys on so far? I'm actually interested to know! I've gotten mostly loyalist comments now, but does this chapter change any minds at all? The sides were more complicated than most make them out, and especially tell them out, to be. I'm not going to put out what I think right here because I want to hear everyone else's thoughts, not mine said back to me, but the British had some cons as well, just as the Americans had their pros. **

**I walked downstairs and passed my father after I wrote the little historical note up there, and my father asked what I had just been doing to cause me to be so quiet. I said I was making notes on the Constitution, and he only turns to my mum and goes, "She should have been George Washington's daughter."**

**I'm going to have to apologise for the extremely short chapter. It was practically 100 words short of a 2000 word count! My chapters average to be about 2600 words, or somewhere in that range. Lately, I've been hitting the 3000, 3500 mark, which I've been proud about. Now I'm a bit ashamed.**

**The next chapter is probably going to be shorter than this, too, but it's all necessary! **

**(And this entire time I've actually been trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to make romance possible here. I've never written romance before, and this fic is definitely not the easiest. Someone shoot me with a musket).**


	9. Wives

**"We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers." Toy Soldiers, Eminem**

* * *

><p>The end of October was approaching, and Alfred wanted anything but, as he stared at the cold hardened ground of his outside garden. Pumpkin vines weaved themselves all over the place, holding some ripe and ready pumpkins, but plenty of pumpkins which were hardly fit for anything.<p>

How on earth was he to feed himself and Elizaveta, with the addition of Matthew and Katyusha, in terms of vegetable? The family had no animals but horses to slaughter and salt for the winter, something they would certainly not do, so Alfred would have to see if he could trade for any from the colonies farther south. But that day was Sunday, and the entire rest of the week after would be spent gathering income for such trading and buying. Hopefully Elizaveta would be well off on her own, sleeping at the tavern, while Alfred travelled. He knew that she was fully capable of handling herself, it was the matter of the cold that worried him. There was no fireplace in the tavern's upper floor.

Alfred rose from his kneeling position, hands crossed over his chest as he fought to ignore the biting wind that was starting to chill him. It was roughly supper time, and the clouds in the sky and the northern wind made it feel just as late. He frowned at his saddening excuse for crops and turned around to go back into the house.

That was when the glittering of the lake caught his attention.

The lake that Alfred had shown Arthur the other day was the same lake that was not that far from Alfred's own home. It froze mostly over in the winter, but at that moment it was only frigid cold, something he would surely die from if he accidently slipped inside. He was on the opposite side of the lake from where he stood the other day, the opposite side of his tavern – it certainly was not a large lake at all, it could have been but a significant pond – but he could spot, sitting where he had been, a figure.

The figure appeared to be crouched over the water as if it were a looking glass, but there was a blob of red beside it that fed a suspicion gnawing at his chest. Quickly, Alfred jogged around to the back of the house and mounted one of his two horses, giving it a slap and sending it at an even gallop toward where he knew there would be a road with a bend in it.

When he got there, his pant legs damp with the dew sliding down long stalks of grass, he tossed the reins around the first sturdy tree he saw and practically slapped back branches and kicked back brambles in his path cutting from the road.

And what he saw was half what he expected, and half what he did not.

Arthur was there, and an empty bottle of beer was on its side beside him, ready to be pulled away by the softly sloshing water. Everything up to his knees was wet, as he was literally kneeling in the water, and Alfred could only thank god that one beer was not enough to get any man truly drunk – and especially not drunk enough to dive into a lake at the beginning of winter. Arthur's forehead was in his hands, and his fingers were tugging at his hair and bangs.

"Arthur?" Alfred asked. His voice was not gentle, not after the events of the month before, as he had lost any respect he had had for the man all over again. No man so inclined to succumb to the lies of posh people sitting in a building an ocean away deserved his respect. It had been an entire month since then, but most of it was spent preparing for the winter and spending time with his family. The day before, Matthew had suggested leaving before Christmas, but Elizaveta had been quick to insist that they spent Christmas all together, so everyone was rushing to meet that year's ends. Alfred and Arthur had not spoken. It seemed that Arthur's own soldierly duties grew vigorous yet again, as they were never put in any action during the winter due to the cold – therefore, the two had not had a chance to begin with. But despite all of that, it would be truly wrong to leave Arthur there, and fought against all of Alfred's morals more violently than his growing patriotism.

Arthur shifted, but he did not immediately answer. Alfred was surprised by the realisation that he was actually annoyed by that. Then, as Alfred was about to open his mouth and demand some sort of response, Arthur spoke. "Perhaps Parliament is being a bit…unfair," he said, and Alfred could only stare at the back of his blonde head as the man took away his hands and looked out over the water. "Maybe they—"he coughed, "—we, are being unsympathetic towards your case." Alfred could not see Arthur's face, but if he had, he thought that Arthur might have been frowning.

Alfred was frowning, too. But in contemplation.

How long had Arthur been thinking about that? Alfred had good reason to assume the entire month. If Alfred had been in Britain… He would not have thought that way. Likely, he would not have thought to even consider that way. Would he? Well, he did not quite know. It would do good to ask Elizaveta of her thoughts on what he would do – she seemed to know him better than he knew himself. But nonetheless, Arthur had thought that, and Arthur had said that to Alfred – Alfred, an obvious patriot if there were none.

That must have been what compelled Alfred to walk towards Arthur's side and sit down. A little farther back, perhaps, to avoid getting his britches wet, and he saw from the corner of his eye Arthur's coat – absolutely and positively soaked, plopped messily in a small pile. Alfred thought that that was very unlike Arthur.

"You," Alfred started, planning on saying something congratulatory to Arthur's train of thought, but finding himself stuck with something to say that would still showcase the difference in their opinions, but display his gratitude. "You are a good man."

Arthur turned to him, but the frown that Alfred had sworn would be on the other's face was not there. Instead, a thoughtful expression had settled. Alfred had thought it was because of the compliment, until that thoughtful expression turned sour in… remorse? "Certainly not," he replied, and Alfred was set back that the first praise Alfred had ever given Arthur was so lightly taken and merely shrugged off.

"And why is that?" Alfred asked, annoyance leaking into his words. "You aren't a bad man."

"Am I not?" Arthur counted. "What is it that compels you to say that? You do not know me at all."

"I know enough," insisted Alfred, and Arthur scoffed in irritation.

"I am an odd, strange"—was Arthur quoting Alfred's own words earlier? It honestly felt like he was—"freak of nature, and there is nothing I can do to change that. I have attempted _every _course of action that a man of my status can possibly take."

Well, that was entirely not what Alfred had expected to hear. "And…why is _that?_" he inquired.

Arthur did not promptly give an answer. He continued to stare over the water as if it held the answers to the entire world, watching the waves glitter with the dim, retreating sunlight that had no clear source from the reflective clouds, only to be engulfed by other waves. One wave rose to give way for the second, and eventually, they both fell – insignificant little water formations amongst the strong wind and large pond.

"For one, if you were to show me a handsome man, I would probably look back." After such a pause, Alfred had expected Arthur to say something dramatic, but Arthur said the sentence so casually and so matter-of-factly, even rising to brush off his clothes and pick up his coat and walk away as if it were just an everyday thing– and as if the coat were completely dry–that Alfred did not bother to register the words until Arthur was already gone.

* * *

><p>It was Monday night, and Alfred could not look Arthur in the eye as he fisted a rag inside a glass and spun the glass around.<p>

For some ungodly reason, Arthur had decided to drink that night at the tavern, and he was seated in the farthest corner possible from the bar table, nestled in the shadows. He seemed intent on making himself seem as small as possible, and it was clear that he would have preferred retreating into his room if it weren't for the fact that it'd be harder to keep ordering drinks that way. Arthur mostly stared into his drink when he got it, though. Occasionally, he would slosh the liquid around and watch as it lapped at the edges of the cup, as if begging to be let free.

Oh, Arthur knew it was wrong. And before he had so blatantly told Alfred – why on Earth did he tell Alfred at all? – he would not have admitted it to himself. He thought it was simple admiration, or the same jealousy as women more clearly had of each other than men let on. But no. That was only what Arthur could think as he glared specifically at a random chosen man in the crowd, a tall and handsome brunette bloke who had wound his arm around a petite blonde woman seated on his knee. Arthur did not want to _be _that bloke. He did not care enough to be so unnecessarily tall and have a woman seated on his leg. He did not want to brunette, and certainly did not favour the feeling of having so much muscle in blunt display on his arms. Arthur looked at that man in appreciation of every aspect of his body and a mind that commented on it in more ways than one, he did not look at that man with a burning jealousy and a mind that commented on how Arthur would never be that way.

His revelation to Alfred only brought that to light.

Arthur was not as keen as usual to drink that night, but it was certainly better than lying in bed with nothing to do. Then again, Arthur thought as another man walked through the door and he downed his glass of whiskey, he had never been opposed to getting drunk for no reason.

Alfred was shot a puzzled eye by Elizaveta when his cleaning motions stopped, and he watched with a gut dropping sensation that could only be described as reality punching him in the stomach when a man walked through the door. It was a man of well-built stature, dirty blonde hair and a red coat draped over his shoulders. He shook his head as water droplets from what could only be rain outside flew everywhere, and some of the tavern – including Alfred and Arthur – glanced at him in order to examine the new comer.

Alfred looked away again to return his gaze back to Arthur, and he saw Arthur look away as he finally finished his drink. But unlike Alfred, when he set the cup on the wooden table again, Arthur glanced back at the man for a second look.

* * *

><p>Elizaveta got to the tavern Tuesday morning before Alfred, as Alfred was caught up tying the horse's reins outside. But when Alfred finally entered and searched for his wife, he found her a moment later standing beside the sleeping figure of a certain redcoat curled up with a bed sheet in front of the hearth that had begun to die.<p>

Alfred slowly and uncertainly, without a word, walked to the kitchen, but Elizaveta had knelt in order to stir the fire. A pile of coals collapsed at her interruption, and the sound accompanied by the sudden heat must have disrupted Arthur's sleep, as he shifted with a sharp intake of breath. Alfred watched over the counter as Arthur opened his eyes and stared in incomprehension at Elizaveta, who was staring at him with an amused expression.

"Say, Arthur," she asked, and Alfred was suddenly cautious of what she was about to propose, as Elizaveta settled her hands in her lap like she did when she had thought of an idea. "What would you say to spending the winter in a warm home?"

God damn wives.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think these chapters have been taking longer for me to write because I actually planned them out beforehand. When I didn't plan them out, I was having them done two a day. What is wrong with me?**

**Without further ado, though, I believe I have to explain Elizaveta here, as a reviewer brought her situation more to light. I'm going to just copy and paste what I sent them about her:**

**"Elizaveta has slightly different opinions from everyone featured here. She is not as patriotic as Alfred, and not as loyalist as Matthew, nor does she have the emotional ties to being a loyalist as Arthur (though she IS a patriot, because her husband is a patriot and it is definitely hard to not get sucked into all of that - plus, girls weren't really asked for their opinions during that time, so she's assumed to be of the opinion her spouse is, even if she were loyalist). She's just logical. She is our character who knows all the gossip - the women during that time knew /everything/ when it came to news, just from gossip - and the one who holds the middle ground in order to balance this entire thing out. A big point is also that she isn't as foolhardy as Alfred. _Alfred readily believes what he is told as long as it feeds his already current opinions_ (IMPORTANT NOTE). Elizaveta isn't like that. She asks questions about Alfred's opinions because she doesn't have the same thinking patterns as Alfred going through her mind."**

**And there you have it.**

**It was so hard making Arthur say that the British had been too hard on the colonies. I pretty much consider the Americans to have been spoilt brats. Regardless, it's kind of how children are raised. You can't suddenly enforce strict discipline on, say, a 17 year old, after you had raised them all their life giving them free range. But I still think that the British rule on the colonies was practically nothing compared to the rule they had on Britain itself. British citizens had way worse taxes, for example, than Americans at any point in time. Still, for my opinion, if I lived in the colonies, I would definitely have been a patriot, just because I'm a foolhardy, action-craving, spirited kid, and the information colonists had had access to about Britain itself was very little.**

**Also, do not fear! There WILL be more action in this story, instead of just back and forth bickering as they've pretty much done for this entire story so far. This is the autumn/approaching winter of 1769. The major events didn't start until the 1770's, and the Declaration of Independence (which "technically" started the war itself) was written in 1776. I'll bet you all are pretty pissed at me for the time frame. Don't worry about that, either. There will be plenty of time jumps.**

**NOTE AGES:**

**Alfred _18_**

**Elizaveta _20_**

**Arthur _19_**

**Yes, Elizaveta is the oldest.**


	10. Is There Something Special?

**Try everything you can. If you don't like it, then just don't do it again.**

* * *

><p>Arthur looked around.<p>

The house was quaint and not obvious in any wealth, something Arthur would expect of a newlywed young couple. It was also very plain - the furniture that there was present did not match each other, suggesting that the couple had gotten them from relatives or by cheapest trade. One wall was brick, and that was where the hearth was located. In the centre of the room, a rug was presented, of a dappled black and white colouring, and on that rug was a long and sleek brown table. Arthur turned the corner, and there was another, smaller fireplace made of brick that he assumed was for cooking. In the middle of that small area with the smaller fireplace was a small, rich brown in colour, short table, and then all sorts of kitchen utensils and cooking pans were placed on every shelf and place that they could fit. That was all for what Arthur could see, the only thing not having been explored being the hallway beside him.

Alfred followed Arthur.

Arthur knew that it was reasonable for him to be doing so. A man they had known for roughly two months was being let into their home to live for what could be the next three months. Certainly, that was rather sudden and surprising for Alfred. Arthur got the notion that Elizaveta had neglected telling him about her plans.

"Everything is rather boring," Elizaveta commented from the other room, where she had begun to hang all three of their coats. It had been raining hard all evening, leaving them drenched, so they were unable to keep warm in clothing. She shot Alfred a glare, as the man had neglected starting the hearth in favour of watching Arthur. "You won't find very much to look at. It has not been long since we have this house."

"Really?" Arthur responded as he walked back into the main room, beginning to light the hearth as Elizaveta had been about to head towards it herself. She was surprised at his actions, but said nothing.

"Yes," she answered, brushing off her dress as her hands had nothing better to do. "Since July. I inherited the tavern, but my mother occupies my childhood home with my nephew."

Arthur looked up in interest as he stirred the coals, urging them to awaken. "You inherited? I assumed that it was the man who inherited the most profitable of things."

"I am an only child," Elizaveta commented, and it almost seemed as if she had to force herself to say that. "Alfred's brother inherited what Alfred might have gotten, and I would not have moved from this city."

It seemed like Arthur might have asked more questions, but before he knew it, there was the sound of footsteps on the hallway right beside them and a long haired blonde man approached carefully, clothed in a thick leather jacket and thick leather pants. He rubbed his eyes and blinked curiously at the trio below him. As his sleepy gaze registered Arthur, however, he almost jumped, startled. As he was about to open his mouth, though, the corner of his vision caught the sight of a red coat on the coat hanger, and suddenly, his smile was wide.

"Hello," he greeted politely, and Arthur was clearly taken aback by the warm welcome. "I was not told that there would be more guests so late in the night." Matthew began walking towards the two, emerging from the hallway.

"I wasn't, either," Alfred agreed, and Elizaveta had to put her palm over her mouth in order to stifle her laughter.

"Ah, yes," Arthur said as he cleared his throat, standing and offering a hand to Matthew, which he gladly shook as he reached the other. "I'm Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Army, pleased to meet you, Mr.-?"

"Jones," Matthew filled in, "Matthew Jones."

Instantly, Arthur's eyes filled with recognition - but then, just as quickly, grew confused. He slowly drew back his hand, attempting to make his expression return back to its neutral state. Matthew must have noticed, but he said nothing on the matter, only casting his brother what could only be described as a disapproving look.

Arthur had heard about the different loyalties of families, but he never thought that they could be drastic. Matthew and Alfred did not even talk to each other, it seemed. They did not greet one another, even though Matthew gave Elizaveta a smile and she worriedly asked if they had woken him. Matthew agreed but said that he did not mind and he and his wife had fallen asleep in the other room attending to their child. He offered to show Arthur where the man would be sleeping, but Elizaveta refused and insisted that she was the hostess.

Alfred stared at Arthur's back as the man ascended the hallway with Elizaveta two steps in front. She was pointing to the room in front of them, what Alfred assumed to be Ivan's room, saying something that Alfred was not focused on. He simply wanted somewhere to put his eyes, that and he found himself drawn to staring at Arthur when Arthur was not staring back. He would not look Arthur in the eye, but he had had a long time to think about what Arthur had told him the other day. Why would Arthur tell him what he did? Certainly, it would only alienate people.

Or maybe he had been so caught up in his own thoughts and emotions that he had not realised what he was saying. Alfred knew that that had happened to himself more than once or twice.

Or, perhaps, just maybe, Arthur was tired of having to hold it in.

Arthur did not go out of his way to avoid Alfred as Alfred had been doing to him. He did not only look at Alfred, he stared straight at him, as if judging the younger man's actions and assessing the situation. Alfred wanted nothing more than to be ignored by Arthur and continue on his day, but the younger man found himself struck with an odd sense of what he could only call contemplation of revelation and/or new maturity – and it all had to do with the blasted man. No, instead of forgetting about Arthur and viewing the man as a burden to his tavern day by day, ignoring him when at all possible, he found his eyes seeking him out – though only when Arthur was not seeking him back. Alfred found himself staring at Arthur and wondering just how such a person was possible.

It was a sin for a man to love another man. So why did Arthur live so comfortably?

Yes, of course, Arthur was a soldier, but he perhaps had it better than most other soldiers. Once, Alfred had even found a bible on the side of Arthur's desk. For days, as Arthur had lain sick in bed, he had not gotten up, and soldiers were not uncommon to be seen coming to the tavern to be sure of the man's whereabouts; so Alfred would have to lead them into Arthur's room to prove where he had been. Whatever punishment Arthur had received for skipping out on training was unknown to Alfred, but it seemed as if Arthur was hardly missed – or remembered about at all. Yet, Arthur had gotten up every day that he could and left as if he were the most important asset to the world.

It was not egotistical – no, it could have only been a sense of duty. Each night that Alfred had checked, Arthur's bible was in a different place. Sometimes, it was on his face, as he had fallen asleep reading it. On those nights, Alfred had walked in and placed it face down on the desk, then left without telling either Elizaveta or Arthur. And Arthur never mentioned anything about it.

But Alfred never spoke a word to Arthur, and as Alfred soon found out, that only made the British man that much more mysterious. Unknown. He was new and undiscovered territory, and Alfred did not know what to do with it. He did not know what to do with the fact that he would then be spending the entire winter living in the same household as the soldier – he would be spending _Christmas _with the soldier.

"Can you not be more polite to the soldier?" Matthew demanded all of the sudden, snapping Alfred out of his thoughts. "It is his duty to be here and protect you, and what do you do? You rudely cast him off without as much as a goodnight."

"I was not being rude to anyone, and especially not Arthur – considering I said not a word to him," Alfred countered back.

"Exactly," Matthew protested, reprimanding. "Mr. Kirkland deserves more respect than that."

Matthew's words went as a shock to Alfred, and not because of what he said. No, it was because of what he called Arthur by. Mr. Kirkland.

That was when Alfred realised that he had, at some point in time, stopped calling Arthur by any formal name. First names should have been reserved for only those who were close.

"A man intruding on my household deserves none of my respect," said Alfred, and he felt like he was repeating something that he had already said.

The taste of a coming argument was on the air, but it seemed it was just in time that Katyusha emerged from the hallway with Elizaveta, holding Ivan in her arms. She cast the two an apprehensive glance and did not seem the least bit startled when Alfred practically stormed past her and into his and Elizaveta's shared bedchamber.

Elizaveta sent an apologetic look before she followed.

But as Alfred lay awake that night, there was only one thing he could think before he fell asleep, even after that entire month of thinking and thinking.

What would it be like to love another man?

* * *

><p>Elizaveta wanted meat. Katyusha wanted vegetables. Matthew was needed as their company. Arthur was somewhere Alfred would rather not know.<p>

So, basically, Alfred was left alone.

Before Matthew left with the women to the market, however, and the women conversed near the horses, Matthew sat pulling on his boots and staring strangely at Alfred. Alfred had decided not to go with them, and for whatever reason, Matthew did not know. Nor did he care to know. He blamed it on his younger brother being a lazy, selfish child who knew not when he had work to do.

"Are you so irresponsible that you've left Elizaveta and your household with little winter food?" he asked, reaching over to grab his other boot. Alfred tensed at his brother's voice.

"Do you believe me to be irresponsible?" Alfred asked, and Matthew rose his eyebrows.

"Not usually, no, but it appears to be so," he responded, and Alfred grit his teeth.

"Oh?" he said conversationally, staring into the fire of the hearth. "Really? Then tell me, why would you leave an irresponsible man with your woman?"

Alfred was not turned to face Matthew, but he could hear as Matthew harshly tugged on his boot and roughly stood up. Matthew's normally gentle demeanour always turned to have a little more force when he was tense or angry. It was never displayed in his voice, as he had never had the loudest voice in the world, but rather, in his actions. "That matter has long been done with, and it was entirely your choice to marry Elizaveta."

"And what would have happened if I did not? Shame our name and leave the woman a widow?" Alfred demanded. "Only for you to run off with Katyusha?"

"That is enough," Matthew commanded suddenly, his voice soft but his words speaking of respect. "It was your—," suddenly, however, he stopped. He seemed to take a step back in what he was about to say, and instead closed his eyes and released a breath. "Thank you," he said, "For upholding what honour I could not. All I ask is that you take better care of your family."

Alfred did not want to respond again as Matthew left, and he did not. He was silently uprooted in his emotions that his older brother dare live at his home as a guest and then tell him he was an inattentive husband. But Matthew was not finished speaking, and it showed as he opened the door and moved to leave. "And that includes not fighting in a battle that cannot be won," his look was hard as he said that, searching for Alfred's eyes in order to hold his gaze. "In every action you take, think of your family _before_ your own pride."

And then the door was shut.

* * *

><p>Alfred thought that everything was <em>hilarious.<em>

No, really. The table sat weirdly, the fire had such an odd arrangement of colours, and look, a brick was missing from the right of hearth. Oh, and not to forget Matthew's serious face when he closed the door earlier that day! How serious. It was hilarious.

Alfred thought that his giggling would surely awake the five year old child in the room down the hall, but it did not appear to be so. Elizaveta would get so angry if he woke her child and made the boy have to witness a man drunk out of his wits.

Wait, no. Alfred squinted, attempting to focus his brain. That child was not Elizaveta's, it was Matthew's. But Elizaveta was married to Matthew, was she not? Oh, no, she was married to _Alfred,_ because Matthew was selfish and did not want to live in the city and used love with Katyusha as an excuse. Right, right.

So Alfred was kind of stuck in a marriage before his 'childhood' truly ended.

Did that make Evan – was that his name? – his child?

Funny, Alfred did not know he had a child!

Deciding that he did not want to wake the child who had unknown parents, Alfred gave out a bark of laughter and stumbled onto the porch step. There was no wind that night, but there was a cold that bit at his jacketless skin. He did not care, he was having too much fun. It was a clear, pretty night out and Alfred had his very own bottle of vodka in his hand – he felt warm, so there was certainly nothing to lose.

Arthur was a funny bloke.

Definitely a funny bloke. A funny bloke who liked other blokes! Now, was that not a real kicker? But there must have been something special in liking another bloke. It was so out of the ordinary that something must have made Arthur decide that men were the better choice.

Were men the better choice? Well, certainly, a man did not get paired in an arranged married with another man. Perhaps, that meant men were the _wrong _choice.

No, that could not have been right. Arthur would not have gone out of his way to be special like that.

Clearly, that settled it to Arthur being a freak of nature, then.

But again, no. Alfred frowned, not liking how hard it was to think rationally under the influence of vodka. He giggled some more.

Arthur was a completely normal man. He was a normal redcoat-wearing man with normal emotions and a normal mind, in a normal-for-the-British situation. To be a freak of nature by not being able to love the right gender could not have been right.

But was it the right gender? Technically, it was the opposite gender, so it should have been the opposite of right, which was wrong, and—wow, the stars were really pretty.

Laughing, Alfred tilted his head back and grinned lopsidedly at the stars, holding up his bottle of vodka. "A toast!" he cried loudly, thrusting the bottle to the sky and having some spill over the edge. He glanced down to where the alcohol had landed, over the cold and matted brown grass. "Is it cold, my pretties?" Alfred slurred, and then proceeded to pour more vodka onto the ground. "Another toast!" he shouted again.

He began to walk, and fell onto the ground. Odd, he did not remember being pushed. Alfred rolled onto his back instead of attempting to stand back up, but as he was about to laugh again, he groaned. Suddenly, he was nauseous. Maybe rolling around had not been such a good idea.

Where was his brother and the women? Surely, they should have been back by then. How long had it been dark? How long had he been laying there? Somehow, the bottle suddenly seemed so away, and he reached almost desperately for where it lay about a foot from his outstretched finger tips.

Oh, look, there was a foot.

"Alfred?" came the sharp, alarmed voice of someone Alfred could only vaguely recognise. As he dragged his eyes upwards, though, his vision stumbled upon messy blonde hair and an acidic green gaze that was fixated only on him.

How sweet. The man was only looking at him. Alfred thought that he should feel special.

As a delayed reaction, it finally occurred to Alfred who the man was, and he began to awkwardly scramble onto his feet. "You're the funny bloke!" Alfred cried, far too loudly for a quiet autumn night, as he pointed an accusing finger at Arthur.

Arthur took a confused step back.

"Nono, don't go away," Alfred protested, attempting to walk forward, but as Arthur saw that he was about to lose his balance, Arthur lunched forward to catch him. Alfred ended up with one arm awkwardly held up and his other arm dangling to his side as he stood lopsided. Quickly, Arthur righted him.

"Bloody hell," Arthur breathed, his warm breath ghosting over Alfred's face in contrast to the cold. "How much have you drank?" Then, suddenly noticing Alfred's completely unfit attire for the weather, he ran his fingers over Alfred's arms to check their temperature. It gave Alfred goose bumps, but the sensation was pleasant to his numbed skin. "By God, you are coming inside," Arthur demanded, grabbing Alfred's shoulders and looking prepared to haul the man into the house.

"Nope!" Alfred declared, stomping on Arthur's foot and causing the Brit to curse mildly. "I want to figure out why _you_," he pushed his entire palm against Arthur's chest, "are such a funny bloke."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, opening his mouth to ask what could have only been a puzzled question, but it appeared as if Alfred had other intentions. As Arthur moved his foot, he had to kick Alfred's own foot away to give his own more room, as it had landed right beside his. Thus, the drunken American colonist was forced to lose his balance and tumble straight into Arthur. He did not trip, he only stumbled, and quickly grabbed the other man's shoulders to make sure that he did not fall.

"What in the hell has gotten into you?" demanded Arthur again, looking none too pleased at the situation. Alfred grabbed his shoulders and shook it, though he stumbled awkwardly again by doing so.

"You cannot be such a strange freak if the world has offered you to begin with," Alfred slurred, and he swore that the words had made more sense in his head. Ah, well, they were already out. "Why," he leaned in closer, staring, as if that would make any difference at all. Arthur leaned his head back a little to avoid being so close. "Why do you find men better than women?"

Arthur's eyes widened, and he quickly opened his mouth again to ramble out some sort of half-thought through response spurred by anger and bitterness, but Alfred did not give him the chance. "Is there something special?" he demanded suddenly, silencing whatever Arthur might have said. "Is there something that women cannot offer?"

Then, before he could change his mind, Alfred grabbed the back of Arthur's head and nearly smashed their heads together. Their mouths connected, and it was not neat in any way. It was messy, led by a drunk man, but as Alfred tried looking for whatever he seemed to be looking for, he turned his face in an attempt to be in a more comfortable lip lock and Arthur did as well – only in the opposite direction. Alfred opened his mouth in a search for air, some sort of breath, as talking right before kissing the other man had not left him time to breathe, but then Arthur had grabbed his bottom lip with his teeth, just ever so lightly, and scraped it over the inside of his skin.

Alfred had never felt so breathless - even more so than before. It was as if the feeling from Arthur laying on top of him, hugging him, gripping him, was amplified so much more. It was addictive, and Alfred could have sworn that he almost did not want to breathe ever again.

Alfred's hands spread out over Arthur's shoulder blades, pressing Arthur closer and closer until he was practically hugging the man and kissing him both at once. And when Arthur finally reared his head back in shock at what had happened, eyes still wide but with cheeks aflame and breath unsteady – Alfred was out cold.

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><p><strong>AN: I actually got this chapter out faster because there is something that I'm eager****to address.**

**Yes, Alfred is 18, and no, 18 year old men did not normally get married off because 18 year old men usually were still living with their parents and had nothing but inheritance to their name. Fathers wanted to marry their daughters off to someone with profit. Clearly, an 18 year old hormonal boy is not going to cut it.**

**However, Elizaveta was supposed to marry Matthew.**

**Elizaveta is the one who inherited the tavern.**

**Elizaveta's father died before he could marry her off. It was her mother who decided, and her mother picked someone who could 'balance' Elizaveta out. **

**Matthew and Alfred aren't twins.**

**For sake of not having to repeat myself, I'm just going to copy and paste what I sent a reviewer who asked this question here:**

**"Ahah, but Matthew isn't Alfred's twin. Matthew is older than Elizaveta, roughly 22 or 23. Katyusha is even older. I should have explained this all during the first chapter, but I completely neglected doing so, and for that I'm very sorry! Elizaveta is the one who inherited the tavern, because it belonged to her father and he died, and she's an only child. Matthew and Elizaveta were the ones that were supposed to be married, but Matthew didn't want to go to the city. He isn't a city boy. On top of that, he had also fallen in love with Katyusha, who had been a childhood friend. Matthew's parents wanted Matthew to marry Elizaveta because Elizaveta was the one with the profitable living, but Matthew wanted to marry Katyusha and stay on the farm, which was a life he knew. So Matthew tried running off, but Alfred found him and made him stay on the deal that Alfred marry Elizaveta instead. It was a large dishonour to Matthew and put his name in shame for the family to have his younger brother marry what should have been his wife, but it would have been worse if Matthew had run off and left Elizaveta alone. Matthew and Katyusha ended up inheriting Alfred and Matthew's farm after both parents passed away, and Alfred went to live with Elizaveta. The reason Elizaveta and Alfred don't have children is both because they married in July, meaning to consummate their marriage they would have had a child in winter (which was dangerous), and because Alfred had literally just then turned 18 and Elizaveta didn't think he was ready for that responsibility. Alfred and Elizaveta actually haven't consummated yet, but they don't tell anyone that because they should have." The reason couples have children so young is normally because they get impregnated on their wedding night.**

**Why does Alfred have to be so young for this story? You'll see. **

**Oh, and about that last part in this chapter: I could tell I was boring the hell out of my entire audience with absolutely ****_nothing _****happening, so here, have some sexuality confusion.**

**And thus, I look forward to your reviews!**


	11. To Choose Hell

**"And I was thinking to myself, 'This could be Heaven or this could be Hell.'" Hotel California, Eagles**

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><p>Alfred woke up with a start.<p>

Elizveta's sleeping figure beside him remained undisturbed, so Alfred decided that it was early morning. But he was drenched in cold sweat and propped by his arms stick straight behind him, staring at the opposite wall, and with the adrenaline pumping through his system he knew that he would not be able to go back to sleep.

What had caused such a dream? There had to be something wrong with him. A demon nestled in his body and mind, perhaps. Temptation. Something was reaching out for Alfred and pulling the man into its clutches. What was he to do? Resist it? That's what church taught. Resist the temptation.

Why, then, a dream? He had been laying on the ground outside at night when suddenly Arthur had appeared, looking concerned. Alfred had gotten up and some words had been exchanged between them, but as the dream faded, Alfred could not remember them. His memory was focusing on the way that, with a weird sense of clarity that should not come after dreams, Arthur's skin glowed like porcelain. His hair looked feather soft to the tip, and even his eyes had something forbidden about them. His lips may have been contorted in the most confused expression possible, but his eyes had not ceased to glow that entire time.

Then, the part that disturbed Alfred. The part that puzzled, confused, and shook him. Alfred had leaned in for a kiss. It could hardly have been called leaning, more like an ungraceful trip, but nonetheless Alfred's lips has crashed against Arthur's and even though he could feel the hardness of Arthur's teeth through their lips through the force they had come together, Alfred felt something ignite in his stomach. A forbidden feeling. The thrill of doing such an act choked him up. It was a risky feeling that spread like wildfire, and then Alfred was breathing in Arthur's breath just so he could get more of that burning feeling.

That must have been the extent of it. It was wrong. It was a sin. That's why Alfred had felt the way he did in his dream. Going against the rules had been thrilling for him. It all added to the temptation that he was supposed to resist.

But if he knew it was temptation, then why did he still find his mind flashing the images over and over again in his head as his heart jumped in his chest?

He needed to think.

Slowly, Alfred slipped out of the covers, staring at the back of Elizaveta's head all the while and biting his lip. He had never woken up in the middle of the night while being married to her, so he was unsure of whether or not she was a deep sleeper. By the time both feet were on the floor and he was standing, though, all she did was give a groan and flop onto her face, so Alfred grabbed the chance given to him and speed-tip toed to the door.

Alfred softly closed the door behind him and held his breath as he passed by the intersecting door to his right, considering he and Elizaveta's bedroom was at the direct end of the hall, but once he got to the main room and saw Ivan curled up at Katyusha's side, he remembered. He had been planning on riding all the way to the tavern and confronting Arthur, but there was no need for that. Arthur was right there.

Turning, Alfred, with more caution than before, made his way back to the door he had earlier passed. He inched in, feeling slightly creepy and intrusive, but he needed-

What did Alfred need, exactly? What was he even doing? Best to just let it go and pretend the dream had never happened. But there was a feeling about the entire situation that could not be shaken. He needed to see Arthur himself, face to face. Even if it were to just stare at him.

Before Alfred closed the bedroom door behind him, he remembered that there was no light source and went back into his room to fetch a ready-to-light candle from Elizaveta's bedside. He held his breath and darted back out, unwilling to wake anyone and get questioned on his whereabouts. Re-entering Arthur's new bedchamber, Alfred automatically put up his palm in front of the candle, as if that would do anything to block the light from the redcoat. He slowly shut the door behind him with the heel of his foot.

Alfred got to a stop in front of Arthur's bed, and held the candle out to the side so that his eyes could pick up the light and see but not so that it was blocking his view.

Arthur's chest was peacefully rising and falling, and he was lying on his side. One arm, the one closest to the ceiling, was curled up as if protecting his heart, and his other wrist was curled to support that arm. Alfred found the position oddly innocent and endearing, almost amusing, but he refused to reflect on it for too long. Instead, his eyes roamed to Arthur's face, and they stayed there.

Arthur slept with his mouth closed, unlike how Alfred normally slept because of his own force of habit to breathe with his mouth. The colonist lowered himself so that he sat on the floor. The bed was on the ground anyway, as it was a rather temporary bed for guests - considering the room was supposed to later be a room for his future child. Therefore, Alfred could still clearly examine his guest's features.

Arthur's eyelashes were light brown, and swept over his pale cheekbones like feathers. Alfred only just then noticed the palest, smallest amount of freckles dusting over said cheekbones, and he figured that it was from being exposed to the late summer sun from when Arthur arrived. Alfred had heard that it was almost always rain and no sun in England, and he could not help but that think that was a rather depressing thought. Had Arthur really spent his entire life in a dirty, inescapable city within such a grey country?

His lips were pale, almost as if forever draped in the cold, and his golden hair was a mess of tangles on top of his head. While awake, the hair only added to Arthur's overall unruly appearing demeanour. Unpredictable and not to be disturbed, daring - yet proper and polite when the occasion called for it. However, while asleep, it made him look...

Human.

Only human.

Alfred reached forward with his thumb and hovered it over his sharp and defined jaw, his small nose and freckles and feather like eyes, his rather large but surprisingly attractive eyebrows, and rested right above the longer strands of hair that draped over his eyes. Softly, just barely putting any pressure into the action, he swept the strands of hair back to reveal his other cheek that was formerly hidden. The action, however, was put to waste, as the hair only fell back again.

Arthur's soft rising and falling of his chest was momentarily disturbed by a more forceful than before huff of air. It briefly fluttered the tips of his bangs. Alfred paused, his heart beating erratically, but he found that his adrenaline was not pushing him out the door. Instead, it caused him to remain rooted in that spot, staring, as if _wanting _to be caught. _Wanting _Arthur to wake up to see Alfred's face.

Arthur did not wake up, but maybe it was that adrenaline's hidden intention that made it so when Alfred stood up, he stumbled back, as he was not paying attention to his balance in his quest to remain quiet and examine Arthur at the same time. He fell onto his bottom again when he was half standing, and the bump of sound caused the metal of the candle holder to spin briefly on the wooden floor. Arthur groaned.

At least Alfred then knew that Arthur was a light sleeper.

The Englishman turned onto his back, twisting around as if to stretch and let out a yawn. Alfred remained at his spot, staring with wide eyes as Arthur turned back again to return to his former position. His eyes, which had momentarily cracked open, fluttered closed again.

And then snapped back open.

They stared at each other, the British one of the two going slack jawed as he took in the sight of his host sitting beside his bedside, sucking in a breath.

Then, Arthur sprang up. He braced one arm against the top of the bed so that he was mostly sitting up, finding that in his surprise he did not bother getting up fully. He had on a long sleeved, white cotton shirt as the weather was getting colder, as well as again in his long johns. Arthur decided that he would rather not throw the covers off fully and expose his undergarments, so he remained with the blanket pooled around his waist. "Wha-?" he nearly stammered, breathless from sudden adrenaline shock. That seemed to snap Alfred out of whatever stupor he had been plunged into as he jumped to his feet.

"Er, hello," Alfred exclaimed, before biting his lip and stiffly nodding his head. "Rather awkward situation this is, yes? Uh," he took in a breath, preparing to say something else, but it was clear that his mind had already blanked.

Having regained his voice, Arthur tried to glare, but it was too soon after he had woken up and he found that he just did not have the energy to bother. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice not at all lacking in that area despite the absence of a solid scowl. He certainly was not smiling, at least.

"A dream," Alfred answered vaguely, because it seemed that he had already gotten his answer.

Arthur's eyes were sharp. They were sharp and calculating even when Arthur's mind was likely muddled by the late, or early, hour. They were like voids, and Alfred found himself drawn in, and that's when it struck him. They looked individually alive. Not just connected to a living being, but as if they were breathing themselves in an entire world of their own. They had their own ocean full of green that they swam in, and it was the exact same image, the exact same feeling of seeing those eyes as it was in Alfred's dream.

"What?" said Arthur harshly, but his forehead was creased in confusion.

That was when Alfred knew he had to ask. "Was it all a dream?"

Arthur understood what he was talking about. Alfred could see it in the way the man's eyes widened fractionally and he sucked in a breath, but then it was all replaced with a frown deeper than before and the slight raising of his chin. An attempt to appear aloof. "What should I know of it? It was _your _dream," he insisted.

"You know what I'm speaking of," Alfred countered, and Arthur hesitated just a sliver before he rolled his eyes dismissively and sunk back into the covers.

"No, I do not," said Arthur again, and he buried himself in his sheets as if for show. "Now please leave as I attempt to go back to sleep."

"It is my home," Alfred said loudly, and Arthur blinked at the sudden assertion of Alfred's immediate authority in that room.

It took Arthur a second to take that in, but finally, he rose again to the position he had been at moments before. And he did it again. He made no movement, but he did again what Alfred had been frustrated over for months. He kept Alfred's eye contact, did not shrink away in shame or embarrassment or awkwardness as Alfred tried to do numerous times. He locked his green eyes on Alfred's own blue ones and Alfred found that he desperately wanted to turn away, but could not. "No," Arthur said bluntly, and Alfred's mind had to stop and rewind in order to remember what it was that Arthur was answering in the first place. "If you are meaning being outside drunk out of your wits and blatantly attacking me in a quest for something I cannot place, then no, it was not a dream."

Alfred's breath hitched as he found himself overwhelmed with the same temptation that he had had before. Only, before it had been aimed at his dream. Before, a part of his mind wanted nothing more than to go back to that dream. And he could. At that moment, he could pretend the entire scenario presenting him was a dream and just go for it. But figuring out that the reality of the situation was that nothing was a dream, and instead, Arthur was literally his dream - his temptation took a turn. It focused its target, its aim, on Arthur, and Alfred could do nothing but stare with wide eyes as he tried to resist going and seeking the feeling that had felt so wonderful in his sleep.

But Arthur took his reaction another way. As Alfred took a step back, he immediately tensed. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, as if blocking himself. "It was not initiated by me," he said, and Alfred had the vague notion that the words sounded rehearsed - spoken more than once before. "I did nothing wrong and I did not force myself upon you, I am not a monster, I am not a whore, I am not a sin in a way that will send me to Hell or the devil."

Alfred took that in. How was it possible that Arthur was not a sin? That the entire thing was not a sin? "I am not a rapist. I did not rape and nor will I ever rape you," Arthur continued, his voice almost beginning to shake, and he sounded as if he had more to say, but Alfred interrupted him.

"How is that possible?" Alfred asked, and he could see Arthur fighting to remember what it was that he said that Alfred was referring to. Alfred decided to clarify. "How are you not a sin?"

Alfred was certain that Arthur had no answer to that. Why would Arthur have an answer? Most men thought themselves to be saints, and all men thought themselves to be in the right - even when they were in the wrong. Arthur was surely one of those people. But instead of the submission and uncertainty that Alfred had been expecting, Arthur grabbed the bible beside his bed. He thrust the book into Alfred's hands, knowing that Alfred would receive it gingerly.

"Educate yourself," Arthur demanded, his eyes alight with fiery and his voice quiet in an intensity that could only be described as the most dangerous breed of anger. Alfred stiffened his jaw as his own temper flared. He was entirely educated on his knowledge of the Lord. That was how he knew Arthur was sinning! But Arthur only continued to glare at him. "It is stated as a sin for a man to lay with another man," Arthur began.

"And may be stoned," Alfred replied in his own dangerous tone of voice, expecting Arthur to, again, be phased and submissive. But Arthur would not back down. Instead, Arthur began again what he was going to finish.

"It is stated as a sin for a man to lay with another man - and thus, Christ died for our sins," he completed. "I am not going to Hell. No man who lies with other men will ever go to Hell, for the Lord protects us."

When all Alfred did was stare at the cover of the book in his hands, Arthur decided to give another blow to the colonist's faith. "If you believe otherwise, then you do not truly believe in what the Lord has done. He does not pick favourites. If He did, then Hell would only be a place of the lonely and misunderstood."

Alfred looked up from the book in his hands, his thumbs absentmindedly rubbing against the worn black leather, and stared straight into Arthur's eyes. When meeting his gaze, Arthur must have seen something in Alfred, for his anger appeared to slowly dissipate.

But still, despite all the talk of sins, Alfred only then truly understood why Lust was considered one of Seven Deadly Sins.

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><p><strong>AN: LATE WARNING: RELIGIOUS THEMES.**

**Blame my dislike of putting anything before a chapter that there wasn't a warning sooner. I'm not religious, so this was honestly awkward to write. But I did hear nearly all of this from a very religious man himself when he was talking about homosexuality. I was with a friend of mine while talking to him, and when he left, she said that he is the only person she will ever consider a true Christian. **

**This was late (yes, to my reviewers, of course I will always worry about whether or not I'm updating late) due to being stuck on a cruise from early evening to 3AM and then staying up talking to a friend until 10AM, thus missing on a visit to my brother's centre. But, wah-la, here it is!**

**Reviews make me update faster, so don't review if you want me to forget about this thing.**

**See you next chapter!**


	12. Taxation Without Representation

**I find the human ability to talk sometimes rather useless, as many of us would rather watch things play out than talk them over and prevent them from playing out.**

**We call such events, 'entertainment'.**

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><p>When Alfred woke up the next day, he was laying on the floor of his and Elizaveta's bedroom. He had fallen asleep there the other night when he had not wanted to awaken his wife by sliding back into bed with her. It was maybe an hour before she would have woken up and she was already stirring. To attempt a feat such as that would surely cause her to awaken and question him.<p>

Therefore, Alfred was not the least bit surprised when he opened his eyes after having slept near the door on Elizaveta's side of the bed to the sight of Elizaveta's face staring down at his.

"Mind explaining to me why you are not in bed?" she immediately asked, and that was when Alfred foolishly realised that he had not thought of an excuse.

Fantastic.

Before he could answer her, however, his back stiff against the wall he had leant against and his mind groggy with loss of sleep, a shadow was cast over his face and a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Are you ready to leave?" Matthew asked, and when Alfred squinted and tilted his head up to stare at his brother, the man was not looking at him. He was addressing Elizaveta. She nodded and it was then that Alfred took the second to recognise his wife in her day clothes, the type of clothes she wore to the tavern.

"Leaving where?" Alfred asked suspiciously, and Matthew stopped in his movements as he had been about to turn around and head towards the main door.

"We decided to leave you to sleep," he stated, "it looks like you did not sleep very well." His voice stated accusation, but it was hard for Alfred's early mind to wrap around what in the world he was accusing Alfred of. When the colonist was about to open his mouth again, Matthew explained his unspoken question. "I will be taking Elizaveta to the tavern. Katyusha and I will be at the market buying for the place."

"I need to travel," Alfred said suddenly, struggling to stand. "I was planning on going to Pennsylvania for venison and other meats today. We have not gotten any."

Matthew frowned. "Why not look in your own colony for any?"

"There is nothing but fish at port, and all the markets closer by sell nothing but small meat," said Alfred.

Matthew rolled his eyes at Elizaveta. "It sounds entirely unnecessary to me," he stated bluntly, walking back into the hallway. "But do as you please. How long will you be gone?"

"Two days at average," Alfred nodded, finally managing to get on his feet, though not without the unpleasant spinning of his head. Elizaveta was unfazed by the entire news as the two had already spoken of it, and she only gathered her shawl around her shoulders and leaned into her spouse for a hug. He gave it, and then she followed Matthew down the hallway.

"Sleep," she said as he was about to meet with them outside. "That was what my intention was before waking you, and it remains my intention."

Alfred could not have agreed more as he ran his fingers through his hair and leant against the doorframe. He wanted to follow her, but he could already feel as fatigue dragged him back to the floor and she sent him a warning look.

"Have a good journey," she called, and Alfred waved as he slid back to the floor and fell asleep.

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><p>Alfred was taking out the supplies that he had packed the day before – not very many supplies, but supplies nonetheless – for his journey and placing them by his horse when the front door opened. He already knew who it was without having to turn and look, which he did not. Instead, Alfred began lifting his supplies onto the back of the coach and waited for Arthur to approach him.<p>

"Where are you going?" Arthur asked after a moment of watching Alfred get his things together. Alfred turned to look at him as if he had been too occupied to notice the man.

"Oh," he said in surprise, brushing his hands off on his pants. "Travel. I will be back soon."

Arthur's eyes instantly narrowed, and Alfred felt a slight bit nervous under his gaze. How old was the man again? He seemed to be roughly Alfred's age, but he made Alfred feel as if he were far older and Alfred far younger. Alfred considered himself to be an official adult, and he already had his life established for him and responsibilities laid out, but it did not appear as if Arthur thought so. It had Alfred second guessing if he would ever not be considered a teenager. "To where?" Arthur pressed, walking forward so that he leaned against the coach. Alfred absentmindedly pet the side of his horse's face.

"Pennsylvania," he stated conversationally.

Arthur half nodded, raising his chin up and looking down his nose at Alfred, but not bringing his chin back down. "Why?"

Alfred rose his arms, beginning to get exasperated. "Why is it so urgent for you to know?"

"Because I wish to go with you."

Alfred hardly registered his words before he blinked, dropped his arms, and gave his answer. "No."

"What?" Arthur demanded, as if he had not expected that answer at all. Alfred turned his back to him. "And why are you so opposed?"

"Why are you so demanding?"

"Why are you so commanding?"

Alfred looked over his shoulder and the two of them, patriot and redcoat, stared each other in the eye. It was almost as if one of them was waiting for the other to back down. "No," Alfred said again, but he said it slowly and quietly as he leaned in closer to Arthur's face. Then, just as abrupt as that had all been, he began walking back inside of the house.

"Really, now?" Arthur said, following Alfred to the doorframe of the house and watching as the man rummaged around what could only be a coat pile in a basket near the door. He found a light, thin jacket with tight sleeves and wore that, buttoning it, before diving back in.

"Really, now and forever," responded Alfred.

"Even though you will be leaving a redcoat, such as me, in a home alone with your wife if your brother and his ever leave? Or leave me alone in your home for the entire day if I decide I wish to not go outdoors?" Arthur countered, standing there with a smug expression just outside of the house, and he saw as Alfred paused in his search. Then, suddenly, Alfred abruptly yanked the piece of clothing he had apparently been looking for out of the basket and practically stomped towards the coach.

"Your musket stays here," was all that Alfred said. He did not look Arthur in the eyes, and it was a good thing that he did not, for the smirk on Arthur's face would have surely pissed him off.

"Of course," Arthur said, taking his own jackets from the bin and closing the door behind him.

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><p>"When can you tell that you have entered another colony?" Arthur asked long after the two had set off.<p>

It had been perhaps an hour and Alfred had gone the opposite way of the city, instead crossing the small stretch of countryside and entering forest. They were going through the forest right then, on a trail that was hardly wide enough to be called anything but a trail, yet was clearly marked out on the ground. Bushes and trees towering on either side of them made attempting to scout ahead nearly impossible.

"You go to a town and you look around for something indicating the colony," answered Alfred, briefly and almost coldly. "It isn't hard when the town is close to the border. They will often have some sort of sign around."

"Ah," Arthur said, acknowledging the information, but nothing else was said. Alfred was staring stubbornly ahead, ignoring Arthur's existence next to him on the one row seat coach. Arthur tried to not let it get to him, but seeing as he only had passing bushes and frightened rabbits to stare at, it was difficult not to think about.

So the man kisses him, watches him sleep, and then completely disregards his entire existence? Well, that would simply not do.

"Alfred?" Alfred did not answer, only continued to stare straight ahead, but there was nothing of interest that Alfred could possibly distract himself with. Therefore, Arthur knew that he really did have all of the man's attention. "Care to explain to me why you enthusiastically kissed me?" He put emphasis on the man's emotions, unwilling to allow him to slip away with the excuse of an accident.

Alfred still did not answer, but Arthur could see that he tensed. His grips on the reins tightened and stiffened and his shoulders set back.

"Alfred," Arthur pressed again, and Alfred finally seemed to understand that he was not getting away with silence.

"I wanted to figure out why you favoured men," Alfred answered bluntly, and Arthur squinted at him in confusion.

"Would kissing a man solve it?" he asked, and when Alfred could find no ill intent in his words, he found that he still had the decency to blush.

"It—"he paused, finding that the conversation was not one he was comfortable with at all. "I was curious as to what could be better from a man's kiss than a woman's kiss."

Arthur was silent for a moment, processing Alfred's words, before he spoke again. "Nothing," he answered.

Alfred's eyes widened fractionally, but he quickly attempted composing himself in order to not let Arthur in on his thoughts. There was no way that there was nothing better between kissing a man and kissing a woman. If there was not, then why on earth would Arthur choose men over women? It made no sense. Also, Alfred thought in the back of his mind, there was clearly a difference because Alfred felt that difference. There was something about men that was not like women, and there was something about women that was not like men.

"It all depends on the person," Arthur continued. "Who takes your breath away? Who do you feel most comfortable with? Who makes your blood race?"

Alfred felt his face warm as he heard Arthur described what Alfred himself had felt. Arthur looked at Alfred from the corners of his eyes, and Alfred silently begged that Arthur could not see what colour his face surely must be at that point. "In other words, what is different about women than men?" Arthur finished.

"They are not a sin," Alfred stated. Arthur did not look like he appreciated that answer, but Alfred was not done. "Neither goes to Hell," he said, and it was clear to him that the redcoat was pleasantly surprised by that answer. "But one sex is not accepted, while the other is."

"Are they worth going against the rules for?" Arthur countered again, and Alfred decided that he would rather answer in his own thoughts than out loud.

Really, why was it that every conversation he and Arthur had ended up being something so complicated and serious? Alfred was not a complicated nor serious person, and being around Arthur was beginning to stress him out.

Alfred ran a hand over his face, letting out a long breath and when he dropped the limb back to his lap, and Arthur thought that Alfred suddenly looked much older. How odd. Arthur decided to suck in his pride for only that moment. "Are you alright?" Arthur asked, and Alfred's eyes darted to look at him before turning back to the road.

"Yes," he said, before honestly thinking about. "No."

Arthur nodded, but did not press. Instead, he laughed, and Alfred frowned at him. "Me neither."

Alfred could not help the small smile over his face at the strangely depressing answer.

It was maybe a half hour later that the two were riding, silent again but in a somewhat comfortable silence that had not ever been present between them before then, when they passed by another person. It was a man in a red coat in front of a narrow wagon, and Alfred's eyes were quick to examine him and then dart away to return to the trees when the man looked his way. Arthur was not wearing his own coat. It had been a surprisingly mild day out. No sun was present and the entire sky was light grey with clouds, but the light chill presented was something that Arthur rather appreciated. It was something he was used to. Instead of wearing it, his uniform jacket had been draped over the back of his chair. Alfred had not asked why Arthur brought it along to begin with, but Arthur could see that he was puzzled, and only told the colonist that it was because the jacket was rather warm.

Arthur did not need to be wearing the coat, though, for the other soldier to recognise him. The soldier nodded his way. "Good day to you," the soldier said, slowing down his horses to a stop as Alfred moved nearly half way into the bushes in an attempt to make room for the other to pass – as the soldier clearly was not planning on bothering with that. Arthur's face remained passive.

"Good day," Arthur responded.

"Where are you headed?" the man asked, and Arthur could feel more than see Alfred tense up in suspicion. He could tell from the man's eyes, though, that Alfred was not looking at, that the man was not thinking about his words.

"Pennsylvania," Arthur answered vaguely, and the man nodded.

"An hour, then. I've come that way myself. Brawls have been breaking out all over," he said, nodding towards Arthur's coat. "Best be careful."

"I thought it was only Boston?" Arthur said with a frown, but the man shook his head sadly.

"The worst are, certainly. But occasionally, there will always be someone stirring for trouble. I was in one myself the other day – a man convinced that I had sentenced his brother to death," the redcoat elaborated, looking almost exasperated. He had dark bags underneath his eyes, though, Arthur noted. He seemed in desperate need of a rest.

"Ah, then I appreciate the warning," Arthur said. "But there are no towns this way for hours. The first one you come across, use that for the night," he advised, and the redcoat suddenly offered a hearty smile.

"A kind lad," he pointed out as he yanked his reins and the horse started to slowly move on again. "There are not many of those about here." As he passed, he twisted around and offered his hand in a wave. "Best of fortunes, and thank you!"

Arthur allowed a small smile of his own as he lifted his arm, too. "The same in return – best of fortunes for you as well!"

When the man had turned a bend in the road and was out of sight, Alfred turned the coach back onto the road and snorted, shaking his head. But it was in no humour. Arthur could see the stiffness in his jaw as they set forward.

"Was it honestly necessary to go to Pennsylvania?" Arthur asked finally.

"You mistake how close we are to Pennsylvania," Alfred huffed. "It sounds far, but the second best choice would have been further south, which would have taken longer – unless you want to eat fish for all of winter. It only takes roughly three hours to get there."

An hour later, true to Alfred's word, the road widened and more coaches were occasionally passed until the two entered a town. Arthur could not see the name of the town anywhere, but he did in fact catch a sign on the front of a bakery that declared them to be in Pennsylvania. Instead of dismounting immediately, Alfred kept on until it seemed that they had reached the centre of town – or city. The centre of it all certainly looked like a decently sized city, what with the activity going on.

Alfred stopped the coach at the side of the main road, tying up the horses and jumping off to rummage in the only filled bag that he had brought with him from New Jersey. He brought out apples and carrots, and he began offering one by one to the first horse furthest from the road. There were not very many, but it was certainly enough to satisfy the animal. Arthur got off after him.

"You are free to do whatever it is you were planning on doing," Alfred said, patting his horse on the side of its face. "Or waste away your day, however you want to look at it."

"And where will you be?" Arthur asked, being handed a carrot an apple and moving to feed the other horse.

"Getting what I came here for, what else?" Alfred answered, before throwing the bag onto the foot of the seat. "I would suggest taking your coat with you, though. You brought it, and now you have to carry it, or else it will be stolen."

Arthur sighed, grabbing for his uniform. "I have lived in a city, Alfred."

Alfred only shrugged in defence and grabbed one of the decently sized bags in the back of the vehicle, draping it over his arm and walking away. He raised one arm in goodbye before he disappeared into the crowd.

And so that was when Arthur found himself with nothing to do in Pennsylvania.

It was not hard for Arthur to find himself bored. He did not believe he was necessarily lost after he had begun to walk awhile, though the streets almost all looked the same, but he was certainly out of nothing to do but people watch.

And that was what he did. He slowed his pace to a leisurely walk and stuck to where he was nearly glued to the buildings in order to avoid people's way. He did notice, however, the looks shot his way, and though the jacket was draped over his arm, it was still rather noticeable. There was not much Arthur could do about it, though. Where was he supposed to put it? Arthur found himself wishing that he could just fit in as a regular colonist and maybe experience a day where he could walk down the street and not be showered with accusations – verbal or not.

No one confronted him, though. It was more as if they watched from afar his every move, likely wondering why he was watching everyone as well. Could he not just be a regular man without a mission? It seemed not.

Arthur had gone down one of the main streets from the centre of town, where there was still a general hubbub but it was not the main focus of events. There was a fruit stand there, and Arthur wondered at the back of his head what sort of person attempted putting a fruit stand in the approaching winter. Arthur had heard that it snowed in New England, so clearly, the fruit should not be still there. Indeed, the fruit in the stand did not look in the best condition, and most of them were not fruit at all but rather vegetables. Arthur figured that no one would go seeking the food out, though, and he was completely proven wrong. People flocked. When Arthur looked around, there really were no other stands, and he found himself almost chuckling to himself in amusement. What a smart man. He must have saved the foods as best he could and then sold them when the foods were not as available, so that people would want the foods but have nowhere else to go.

Arthur himself decided to approach the stands. He had a fair amount of notes with him, and though he doubted that he would be buying much – or anything at all – he honestly did have nothing else to do. As he walked up to the stand and the fair skinned brunet man sitting comfortably behind it, Arthur mentally noted that Alfred and he had not decided on a time to meet back at the coach. He decided to shake that notion off for the moment – Alfred was definitely not done with his business yet – and instead focus on what was available in the stand.

Or, he tried to.

"Would you look at the nerve?" Arthur was turning an apple over in his hand, noting the way that the skin did not seem to shine as much as it would in the summer and it was not as hard, when the voice spoke up behind him. He ignored it, finding that there was no one that could possibly be speaking to him as he was not from around there, but then his shoulder was grabbed.

Instantly, Arthur spun around, startled as he was confronted by two men. One of them seemed younger, roughly Arthur's age, and tall but surprisingly scrawny. The other was almost the complete opposite. He seemed older, approaching his 30's maybe, and was a few hairs shorter than the other but oddly thick. Arthur could not exactly tell if it was with fat or muscle, as nothing was very defined. Probably both. The shorter one was lightly tanned with pale blonde hair and blue eyes, and the other one paler with mouse brown hair and hazel eyes. "May I help you?" Arthur finally said, slowly placing the apple in his hand back into the stand that his back was pressed against.

"Go away," the taller one said. "You are not welcome here."

"Pardon me, but do I know you?" Arthur countered, frowning.

The shorter one gestured to the jacket on Arthur's arm. "No, but we know you."

"I'm afraid not," Arthur said with a small shake of his head, "you do not know me at all." Really, what was with colonists and assuming that they knew everyone? Arthur's mind briefly flickered to Alfred.

"We know enough," the taller one said back. "And we know that you are not welcome here."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked. He held up his arm. "This? Why, I am not wearing it. Do you know what this means?" Arthur allowed his voice to slip into a tone that he might have used if he were speaking with a child. He did not specifically mean to, but his irritation was watching up with him that day and it was something that could not be entirely helped. "It means I'm off duty."

"It could also mean that you are spying on us," the shorter one pressed, moving closer to Arthur so that he was forced to squeeze away from the stand in order to get more room for himself.

How paranoid was Pennsylvania, really?

"No," said Arthur slowly, carefully. "Or else I would not be carrying the uniform."

The taller one stepped forward again, pushing the shorter one back with a sigh. He almost seemed ashamed of the other's unsupported accusation. "Nonetheless, lobsterbacks are not welcome here. Leave."

Arthur's irritation grew. "What authority do you have to enforce that?"

"What authority do you have over _us?_" the shorter one spoke again. "Just because you were born in Great Britain?"

It seemed to Arthur that the blonde was rather brash in his assumptions. He decided that he preferred to talk with the taller one, even if he was outstepping his place. Arthur turned to the taller brunet, but the blonde seemed to realise this and shoved at Arthur's shoulder. Arthur grimaced, but not in pain. He grimaced at how childlike the blonde was being.

"You patrol these streets to remind us of your control," the blonde stated, shoving again at Arthur's chest. Arthur was not pleased to discover that the blonde did indeed have a bit of strength hidden beneath his skin. "Then force us to supply you with supplies, make us pay taxes for your sake, and then still have the nerve leftover to steal our jobs!"

"Jim," the brunet finally spoke, frowning. The blonde, apparently named Jim, ignored him.

"Really, you steal our jobs! And it is not only in Boston," he jabbed a finger at Arthur's chest.

"Is it our fault that we are sent here?" Arthur said, sighing. "Or is it yours for giving Parliament the reason to?"

"It is our fault that we protest taxation without representation?"

Arthur was going to rip out his hair if he had to hear that phrase _one more time. _How did the conversation even turn that way?

"You do realise that many people in England do not get to choose their own delegates, yes?" Arthur pointed out, though his tone was harsh and annoyed and they had already long begun to attract the attention of those around them.

"But they are puppets and do not bother to speak against it!" the blonde cried.

Arthur stood his ground, not allowing the blonde to continue pushing him backwards. "Visual representation considers the interests of everyone."

The blonde man snorted loudly, even going so far as to toss back his head. Arthur scowled, unable to understand why the entire thing was such a big deal. Could they not all let it go and go on with their day, or was it that they just had nothing better to do?

"Maybe in _your politics," _the other man spoke. "But here in the colonies, we have no one speaking against action on us."

Arthur had finally had enough. When the man again shoved at his chest, he dropped his coat and put one palm on each of the man's shoulders, pushing him back hard enough that he stumbled backwards and was caught by his brunet friend. "Let it be!" Arthur shouted at him. "You are truly pathetic," he spat, "you get more privileges than the British!"

The blonde did not even answer, and it was in the back of Arthur's mind that he realised his mistake. He really should have walked away. It was such an action from Arthur that the colonist was looking for, but Arthur simply was not used to colonists looking for violence. Then again, every man was different, and it was apparent that that man had been looking for a fight. He had been planning all along to enrage Arthur. Before the brunet could stop him, the blonde had ran forward and punched Arthur hard enough in the gut that Arthur was momentarily breathless and bent forward.

Arthur did not appreciate having his pride wounded in front so many people. Women had begun to circle wildly around him in an attempt to steer away, but young, foolhardy men had begun to close them in. When the blonde cocked back his arm, Arthur jumped to the side and out of the way. When the blonde's arm was out in front of him, aimed for a target that was no longer there, Arthur grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him.

The blonde must have had some sort of experience in fighting. He was heavier than Arthur and seemed to realise that, for the second he found his arm being bent backwards, he dropped like a rock, and Arthur was startled enough that he lost balance as well and fell onto his back. Immediately, the colonist got up and kicked Arthur in the side, causing Arthur to groan and roll over so that his back was facing the man.

"Jim!" called a voice, and Arthur could vaguely recognise it as the taller brunet's. He was pushing through a gap in the crowd, apparently having been taken away from the inner circle where the two were fighting.

Taking the chance that Jim had been momentarily distracted, Arthur rolled again and again on the cobblestone until he was at the rim of the crowd, and before anyone could pick him up and push him back into the centre, he had knelt and then stumbled to his feet. As Jim looked ready to hit him in one side to knock him off balance again, Arthur brought back his arm and hit the man in his cheek.

Instantly, Jim's cheekbone was splattered white and then red and Arthur had no doubt that it would bruise. He looked disorientated, and Arthur took his chance and brought his arm back again, socking him in the jaw. Jim fell.

It felt surprisingly good, and Arthur did not even have it in him to say to himself that feeling good at such a fight should have been wrong. But adrenaline was coursing through him and _finally _he could hit back at the annoying as all hell people who had been pestering him for his entire stay in the colonies. No, it did not feel good – it felt relieving.

He must have gotten carried away. Jim had slightly twisted backwards as he fell, both from the force and in an attempt to land on his hands, but he did not. He landed awkwardly on his shoulder, and his face was momentarily twisted in pain. But Arthur did not even try thinking about that. He only went for it, kicking the man hard in the hip. As he went for another kick, Jim used one arm to hook around the back of Arthur's calf and then heel and then suddenly, Arthur was on his back again.

Arthur winced as he felt the sudden throbbing of his tailbone, but before he could properly react, Jim had literally crawled onto him and had hit him in the cheekbone as well. Or was it his eye? Arthur could not tell, only feel pain blossom over his face and the back of his head as it hit the ground. Arthur brought up his knee frantically and had apparently hit something of Jim's, as he felt contact, but it must have been something such as Jim's side as nothing really happened to dislodge the man. He was in too good of a position. Searching for something, anything, and with movements uncoordinated through pure excitement, Arthur grabbed at the man's hair and attempted throwing him to the side. That managed to do something, as Jim wobbled and fell unbalanced onto his hip.

As Arthur was twisting around, though, one knee braced against the ground in preparation to jump to his feet, his opponent was yanked from his sight.

"Enough!" bellowed a strong voice, and Arthur squinted up at the new figure standing there. It was a tall, strong looking dark-skinned man with so short of black hair that it was practically shaved. A black man. Arthur thought that slavery was still legal in the colonies? Still, it appeared that the man was not about ready to succumb to anyone's commands – in fact, he was commanding Arthur. "There will be no fighting in this town square, understood? If you have differences, settle such differences in private," he said, sternly and firmly and leaving not an ounce of room for an argument. The man had Jim in a death grip by his upper arm, and Jim was not so much as attempting to fight back. Instead, he was standing and panting, staring down at Arthur.

Jim spat at Arthur, and it landed near Arthur's face. However, he did not say a word, and the black man instantly began tugging him away. The circle immediately dispersed. "Let me go, slave," Jim spat at the man, but the man looked entirely unfazed and still held onto him until they were plenty of feet away from Arthur and Jim was shoved back towards the earlier brunet. Words were exchanged, but Arthur could not hear them, nor was he thinking about listening in.

He groaned, feeling the first throbbing of pain all over his body, and rolled onto his back. The soldier stared at his palms, watching as the cuts and scrapes from the cobblestone began to fill slowly with blood. He could only distantly recognise that his face must be in entirely worse shape.

"Arthur!" called a voice, and Arthur already knew who it was as he shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the ground, already knowing that the people on the street would be avoiding him. "Are you _insane?"_

When Arthur opened his eyes again, he saw the livid face of Alfred staring back at him. "What is wrong with you redcoats?" Alfred said harshly, and Arthur frowned, unable to understand what the colonist meant. Alfred did not offer his hand, and Arthur would have ignored it anyway. Instead, Arthur began to stumble onto his own feet. "Honestly, starting fights wherever you go? Can you not use your training for something more useful?"

Arthur might have gaped indignantly at Alfred if he had the energy to do so. Instead, he was more than willing to accept the dirtied and trampled coat that was thrown at his face and follow Alfred as he was led back to the coach.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I was planning on posting yesterday with exactly half of this chapter done, but then I thought that literally nothing happened at all (I was going to cut it at the sentence, "And so that was how Arthur found himself with nothing to do in Pennsylvania.") and the least I could do was offer something. Thus, you get double the length of a normal chapter (5507 words) and some more tension.**

**I'm being so mean to the British right now, but I think we can deal. After all, everyone victimises the Americans in all of the Revolutionary War fanfics that I've read. Why can't I turn it around a bit?**

**Note: Alfred is acting like this because, well, he has a huge grudge against the British and believes that all the British are out to do is to treat them unfairly. In other words, think of him as an extremist patriot who is super confused.**

**Now, where do I begin?**

**_Virtual representation was pretty much the belief that, since not everyone got to choose their own delegates, there was still a variety of opinions in Parliament that would represent everyone anyway. _**

**_For the 'stealing jobs', in Boston, extra regiments of troops were sent to keep people 'under control'. Mostly, it was to remind them that they were still under British control, and what is a better constant reminder than British troops? (Boston was pretty much where all the trouble was. They still refused to cooperate with the Quartering Act). However, the troops' pay was terrible, so in their off hours they went searching for other jobs. Therefore, the colonists thought of it as the troops that they didn't want there in the first place to be stealing their jobs._**

**_Many places in Britain also did not get representation, as in they did not get to choose their own delegates. Most colonists did not know this. The phrase 'taxation without representation' was used so much, and it's going to keep being used and I am sorry for all my readers that are going to be constantly annoyed by this fact. _**

**I believe this is the first real action scene I've ever written? Which is hilarious, because I ****_love _****action. How did I do, guys? I would really love your opinions on this thing! (And it's a longer than usual chapter, so I hope I'm getting opinions to begin with – I wrote this all in one day for you guys!).**

**See you next chapter!**


	13. Autumn Carols

**"Who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone?" I Hope You Dance, Lee Ann Womack.**

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><p>Arthur did not fully understand what Thanksgiving was.<p>

Then again, could anyone blame him? He had not even heard of such a thing in England, but the colonists were bustling around as if it were the most important thing they had ever had to do. It appeared to be especially important to Matthew, Katyusha, and Alfred, and Ivan lit up when he heard that it would be occurring soon, but Elizaveta honestly looked rather neutral at the thought of it all.

"All it means is more cooking," she sighed when Arthur asked her opinion about it one morning at the tavern.

Arthur truly wanted to ask about, but when Alfred practically begged Elizaveta for a three-day-long Thanksgiving, to which she responded that that was entirely unnecessary and they did not even need to celebrate a personal harvest, anyway, Alfred deflated dramatically. It then occurred to Arthur that if he were to ask anyone, they would certainly not be Alfred. It would probably cause Arthur to become assaulted by how much the American treasured the event.

"Say," Arthur started, leaning over the counter of the bar as Elizaveta swiped a rag around the inside of a glass. "What entirely _is _Thanksgiving?"

Elizaveta paused, shooting him a bemused glance. "You don't know what Thanksgiving is?" she asked, leaning towards him as well in a gesture of interest.

Arthur shook his head. "There is no such thing in Great Britain," he explained.

Elizaveta looked surprised, but Arthur could not blame her. If he did not know that Americans celebrated Thanksgiving, then it made sense that she would not know that the British did not. "Dear God," she muttered, "don't tell Alfred that."

Arthur smirked lightly. "I was not planning on it."

She smirked back at him, before clearing her throat. "Well, it really is just a large feast to celebrate the good harvest – for most people, anyway"—she continued to clean her glass—"for some it's a religious celebration, mostly Puritans, but I am certainly not Puritan and Lord help us if Alfred ever could survive such beliefs."

It seemed that the bustle for Thanksgiving would never end. Of course, it started slow – at first, it was honestly just Alfred that seemed so overenthusiastic. But as November wore on, Arthur began to notice the changes in the market, especially to do with what was available. Large numbers of turkeys and pigeons, for example. Arthur did not think he had seen so many dead turkeys and pigeons in one place before in his entire life. There were also pigs and what was left of the pumpkins, the pumpkins seemed to be especially valuable, while everything else taken over by other odd vegetables.

Americans did in fact take their feasts seriously, it appeared.

Then, one night when everyone had just gotten together at the Jones' New Jersey household and the women were conversing lightly at the kitchen counter, Ivan playing with what seemed to be some doll made out of hay and Arthur warming his palms by the fire, Alfred walked in through the door. A wind whipped behind him, his jacket rustling wildly, and he only managed to close the door after a few stray, dully coloured leaves escaped into the home.

He waved an envelope in his hand. "It seems we've gotten a delivery. The mail boy was making his rounds in the neighbourhood and handed me this as I was tethering the horses."

Elizaveta frowned at the leaves on the floor, before turning her attention back to her husband and his letter. She beckoned him over to the table as Arthur watched, his interest perked. "Well, hand it over, then." Wasting no time, and ever so graceless, Alfred ripped open the small package and scanned quickly over the page. He frowned. "What is it?" Elizaveta prompted, and Alfred put down the letter with a sigh.

"Do we have to go?" he nearly pleaded and, puzzled, Elizaveta slid the letter over to herself in order to read it.

"_Dearest Elizaveta"_—she began—_"your mother requests your family's presence at Thanksgiving dinner this fortnight, and she would be delighted if you were to come. She claims that she wishes to see how you have been doing and catch up on what she has missed." _Elizaveta scanned quickly over the rest of the page, seeming to ignore most of it, before concluding with: _"Sincerities, Roderich."_

Elizaveta snorted. "Always the formal one," she muttered. Alfred cast her an imploring glance, and with a sigh, Elizaveta shook her head. "This is my mother," she told Alfred firmly. "If she has invited us, then we will go."

"But what of _our _Thanksgiving dinner?" asked Alfred stubbornly, and Arthur could barely restrain himself from scoffing. The man was such a child.

Ivan paused from where he had dislodged a piece of hay from his doll and was about to test how easily it could catch on fire. He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes. "No Thanksgiving?" he asked in horror.

Arthur stared. What was he supposed to say to the child? Actually, why was the child asking him to begin with?

Elizaveta looked with dread at the mess she knew she was slowly creating. "There will be Thanksgiving," she said loudly, to make sure Ivan had heard, before turning to Alfred. "We'll take what we have to them. My mother has likely invited the neighbours as well, and that will be quite a few people." She frowned, suddenly. "I should probably tell her that it's going to be more than just you and I, though."

Alfred shot a non-discreet glance towards Arthur, and Arthur wanted to disappear. Right, they would be going to Elizaveta's only remaining family's house to eat dinner, and chances were, they were as patriotic as at least Elizaveta.

_Lovely._

"Who is Roderich?" Arthur asked politely, instead of voicing his concerns.

Elizaveta looked up at him in surprise, most likely having forgotten that he was there. Ivan crawled over to the soldier and began playing with his shirt cuffs, buttoning and unbuttoning them, and though the behaviour was rather curious, Arthur found no harm in it. "He's my nephew," she explained, slipping the letter back into the envelope. "Not biologically, though. He is slightly younger than I and takes care of my mother – they're neighbours, and we were very close as children."

Arthur felt slightly rude for intruding, but his interest won him over. "Why call him nephew, though? Why not brother, or cousin?"

Elizaveta chuckled. "He and his brother, Antonio, were as far apart as siblings can possibly get. Antonio and I got along just fine, though. He always figured that Antonio and I were the real siblings, and took to calling me his aunt. However, I have no idea where he got the notion that I was related to his father."

Arthur blinked, before politely smiling. "What an odd situation," he commented, and Elizaveta nodded, shaking her head in amusement.

"The funniest part is probably that he still considers me his aunt. Too bad he stopped calling me Aunt Lizzie," she said with a grin.

"Oh, Matthew, Ivan, and I will just stay here and have dinner with each other if it's too much of a bother for your mother and Roderich," Katyusha said, seeming to speak up for the first time since the entire conversation had started. She looked concerned, glancing at the letter worriedly.

Elizaveta's attention turned away from Arthur to focus on the other woman, assuring her hastily that it would be trouble at all, and Arthur instantly began to tune their voices out. Instead, he looked down at Ivan, who was sitting in his lap and playing with the buttons of his uniform jacket that he had yet to take off. The house was beginning to get a bit cold with the start of winter, and Arthur was reluctant to take off his jacket until the hearth had warmed the entire room. He arched an eyebrow at the five year old boy. "Why, hello there, chap," he greeted, his voice transforming into one laced with amusement and enthusiasm meant for children as he lifted Ivan by his sides to look at him. "Mind telling me what mischievous activities you've been attempting to do?"

Ivan giggled and glanced down at the buttons of Arthur's jacket. Arthur followed his eyes, intentionally dramatic, as he spotted all of his jacket having been undone. "Oh!" he cried softly, mocking a surprised expression. "Is the lad I have here secretly a spy? It looks as if he's ruffled my clothing without me noticing at all."

Ivan tried to hide the gleeful expression on his face, but it failed miserably. Arthur hummed thoughtfully, setting Ivan down in his lap. "You do know that such rascals are to be punished, correct?"

"I'm not scared of you!" Ivan exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his chin with a childish grin.

"Oh, but you should be," Arthur said, forcing his face to look serious, but sticking out his bottom lip in order to not make it possibly menacing. He quickly moved his fingers before Ivan could respond over Ivan's sides, and the boy instantly melted into a series of choked laughs and giggles. He fell off of Arthur's legs and tried crawling away, but Arthur only picked him back up and placed him in his lap again, targeting the boy's neck and underarms.

"Mama!" cried Ivan as he tried to get away again. "Mama, help!"

There was an eruption of laughter behind Arthur, and he glanced over his shoulder briefly to see Katyusha smiling happily at the display. Alfred was casting him an odd look, one that Arthur did not take the time to decipher, and Elizaveta looked thoroughly entertained. "Oh, no," Arthur said dramatically with the shake of his head. "Is the tough lad I know seeking his mum's help, or will he escape on his own?"

Ivan squealed, getting up to run but being tugged back by the end of his shirt. Instantly, he turned and used Arthur's grip to take off his shirt then made a break for it, hiding behind Alfred's legs and giggling breathlessly. Forgetting himself for the moment, Arthur laughed, ignoring the look that Alfred instantly shot him.

Arthur had actually laughed. A genuine laugh, not one of his smirks or wry chuckles. It seemed that Elizaveta noticed it, too, as her grin opened and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise. Alfred found the sound to be stuck on replay in his head, and suddenly, he wanted to hear it again. Arthur looked up at Katyusha and winked, holding up her son's shirt. "I suppose that you would like this back, my lady?"

Arthur really was just full of surprises that night, Alfred concluded.

* * *

><p>Thanksgiving night was awkward.<p>

Well, it felt awkward for Arthur, at least. The ride to Elizaveta's mother's house was hardly silent, what with Ivan jumping around and asking if he could start eating the food that Katyusha had packed away in the back of the coach. If Arthur were to be honest, though, Alfred seemed to be more excited than Ivan was. What was the fuss all about, really? It was just food. But the ride was not what was awkward. It was walking to the doorstep that was awkward, and having the door opened to a short lady with greying hair that was having trouble standing. She gently embraced Elizaveta, but talked so quietly that even though she rambled, it was impossible for anyone but Elizaveta to hear. Behind the old woman stood a tall, brunette man, with a completely serious expression on his face and the slightest of frowns.

"Elizaveta," he greeted stiffly, but Elizaveta tutted and moved to engulf the man in a full hug. Roderich's eyes widened as he was forced to lean down uncomfortably, but managed to wrap an arm around the woman before she spun away and began introducing everyone.

"Roderich, mother," she said in turn, "meet my husband, Alfred." Alfred grinned his usual charming grin for others, putting forward a hand to shake for Roderich, and very softly hugging the old woman. Elizaveta moved back so that everyone else was in view, with Arthur far behind attempting to not hang his head in the uncomfortable feeling of being around such strangers. "This is Matthew, Alfred's brother, his wife, Katyusha, and their child, Ivan," she said, pointing to each in turn. She frowned as she could not seem to find Arthur for a moment, before locating him behind Katyusha. "And that is Arthur, the soldier that has been staying with us."

Arthur greatly appreciated how casually Elizaveta had introduced him, and was surprised when Elizaveta's mother made no rude move. She greeted Arthur kindly with a hug as she had done to everyone else, despite Arthur not knowing her at all, and her soft nature, neutrality, and kindness had Arthur taking an instant liking to her. Roderich remained impassive, though Arthur thought he saw the twitch of an indistinguishable expression on his face. The brunette man raised his chin, said hello, told them to follow, and walked off.

Arthur thought that the man acted more like a butler than a neighbour who happened to check up on an old woman every now and then.

They were led into a rather spacious dining room at the end of a narrow hallway, and Arthur found the contrasting proportions rather odd. Still, he could be grateful that the dining room was a rather nice size. He had started getting concerned about how they were to seat everyone, plus the possible neighbours that Elizaveta had mentioned.

Sure enough, there were already a few people there. Three woman and a man. Two of the women were elderly, though not terribly frail or weak, while the other one appeared to be Arthur's age. The man was also older, but he had a fair amount of muscle to him and Arthur considered him to be about middle aged. All of them were middle aged, save for the girl, actually, but he figured that they might have been unhealthy enough to appear older. It was not in his place to prod.

Elizaveta's mother, Arthur had no idea what her name was as he had no clue as to Elizaveta's maiden one, gestured to everyone, and the room quieted so that her voice could be heard. She pointed to the middle aged man, first. "This is Mr. Zwingli and Mrs. Zwingli with their daughter, Lillian, and next to them is Ms. Laurian and Ms. Bradwill," then the woman turned to the guests just arriving and explained who everyone was in turn, but Arthur tuned her out until she finished with a, "and I, of course, am Ms. Hedervary. Now, who would like to say the prayer?"

Hedervary, there it was. Arthur frowned thoughtfully. Romanian? Hungarian? Somewhere in that area.

Everyone was finally seated, and with not getting distracted by the trouble of remember all the names he was hearing, Arthur was finally able to get a clear look of the sheer amount of food presented, with the addition of what Elizaveta had already made.

Roasted turkey, pigeon, pig, pumpkin, pumpkin pie, apple pie, cooked tomatoes, cabbage, spinach, chicken, carrots, pastries filled with cream and topped with raspberry, cinnamon pastries topped with apple, pumpkin topped with pastries, something that looked suspiciously like huckleberry jam and strawberry jam and raspberry jam and blackberry jam, bread, garlic bread, toasted bread, walnuts and cranberry and cashews and almonds, three different bowls of different salad, yogurt and stuffing and cream, earl grey tea and black tea and some yellowish milky oddity and why in the world was all of it necessary?

Alfred was in a rather good mood. Arthur knew he was in an exceptionally good mood because at his gawking expression, the colonist nudged him in the shoulder and grinned so wide that Arthur was convinced his teeth would fall right out of his mouth.

The only thing he could answer with was, "I understand now why you need so much food for the winter."

The only thing Alfred answered with was, "Wait until Christmas."

Arthur was staring at his food so intently that he completely missed the prayer.

He felt his shoulder opposite from Alfred being tapped, and Arthur turned to meet the soft, green eyed gaze of the young woman he distantly recalled was named Lillian.

"Arthur, right?" she asked softly, and Arthur nodded, swallowing to clear his throat.

"Yes," he answered. "Lillian, correct?"

She smiled. "Correct. Not many remember my name."

Arthur frowned. "Why is that?"

"I am rather quiet," she replied with a shrug. "It's more difficulty remembering someone who speaks less."

Arthur chuckled softly. "I believe you would get along just well with Matthew."

"Does he not speak much?" Lillian asked, intrigued. She was a pretty lass, Arthur had to give her that. Her long, braided blonde hair was adorned with a lovely blue shade of ribbon, and she had donned a blue Germanic dress. It contrasted with her big eyes and made them seem slightly turquoise.

Arthur hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know him well enough to say, but I have seen him get mistaken for his brother at the tavern more times than I can count."

Lillian giggled, casting a glance at Alfred, who was busy downing his food with all the glee of Christmas morning. When he laughed, it was a laugh that echoed and caught attention, and usually caused the person he was speaking with to become embarrassed. "I can picture that," she said.

Arthur nodded but did not respond, instead looking over the table to see where he could possibly begin to eat. No one else had the same troubles, but it would seem entirely rude if he did not start eating quickly.

"Are you not hungry?" Lillian asked with a frown, looking at Arthur's empty plate, and he flushed lightly at what he had been trying to avoid.

"I am," he countered, his eyes glued to the slowly vanishing turkey. "Just a slight bit… overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed?" pressed Lillian.

Arthur nodded. "I have never celebrated Thanksgiving before."

Lillian's eyes widened. "Really?" she said incredulously. "It's always been my favourite part of the holidays. Oh, you must try everything!"

The soldier stared at her in near horror. "Everything?" he echoed.

Lillian giggled again, catching on to his horrified expression. "Just try, not eat the entire table."

Arthur glanced over to his right, where Alfred's plate was piled high. "Honestly, I seem to be the only one having difficulties with that part."

The blonde girl tilted her head to regard Alfred. "This is probably the only time that he has free reign to eat without needing to save some for others."

"You mean he saves some for others when he eats daily? Miss, I believe you have it all wrong," Arthur protested playfully.

Beside them, Alfred swallowed a bite of raspberry bread and looked at them in what he tried to make a serious frown, but really only ended up as a lopsided smile. "I can hear you two, you know."

"Oh dear!" Lillian exclaimed. "It appears as if we've been caught!"

"Hide the food!" Arthur responded in similar manner, and the three laughed.

And there the awkwardness dispersed. It appeared as if everything before that night had been suddenly forgotten in the warm lighting of the hearth and plentiful candles, the wind whistling unheard outside, and hours later, when everyone was full but still in their chairs talking contently and no one wished to leave at all, Arthur and Alfred could be found talking amongst just themselves with Lillian having gone to play with Ivan. Not a word of any politic was spoken.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh god, oh god, oh god, how do I start, how do I begin?<strong>

**I am so so so so ****sorry to everyone about how I literally just dropped off the face of the earth and haven't been seen since July. I can't believe it's already October. I was planning on getting this done by September, and now I doubt I'm going to be getting it done by my _birthday_. I count birthday as New Year. It's a new year for me. So technically, it would be my second year of writing this story, and I never meant to make it this long. This really was going to just be a quick little multi-chapter I was going to finish before school. When did it get so damn long? It's not even on the main plot anymore. Has anyone else realised that I've been improvising all of these chapters?**

**But onto my explanation:**

**At the beginning of August, I left for a week to a survival camp. I was not able to update that Sunday to tell you guys I would be going, and stressed out about how I would be taking an entire week to update with no explanation. Well, on my last day of that week, I went down with strep. I've never been as ill as strep before - I've hardly ever even had a bad cold or flu. Therefore, my mother thought I was legitimately dying. Then the hospital had the great assumption to say I had mono. One of my biggest fears is having a disease I can't cure in my body - or something in my body at all that I can't get out. So I had a freak attack and was terrified out of my mind, since the virus that causes mono remains dormant forever in a person's body. Therefore, I was mentally and physically out of it, took the wrong medication, and my body stopped responding to medication, but I was finally better by the end of August. Then my brother decided it was a lovely time to get kicked out of rehabilitation and enter my life. I suffer a lot of fears and psychological quirks due to things with him in the past, and I was not able to go home for more than sleep for a week (and got kicked out many times because my parents did not want us in the same house, as well) before the court managed to drag him away for domestic violence, thank god. School started and I've been bombarded with board positions and clubs and lots of honours homework, coupled with a scholarship business going on. So my family decided it an ideal time to move. Now I'm managing school from not being in the right school district because I was somehow able to stay at the school I've been in, and am still moving in, as well as helping get our old home rented by someone else. I've still been taking the wrong medication and still out of it. To add on top of it, our financial situation got worse, and if I vanish for another long time period then I may or may not have cut off our internet.**

**And there you have it, my extreme ramble of what has happened in the past two months. Again, I am so insanely sorry, and feel terrible.**

**I also just _desperately needed something light hearted_ so hopefully you guys won't complain at this oddly out of mood chapter.**

**Now, onto chapter stuff:**

_**Thanksgiving is a celebration unique to North America, as I'm sure you all know by now. Only Canada and America celebrate it, as far as I am aware, and Canada celebrates it on a different day than America. America celebrates Thanksgiving at the end of November. It was originally created to honour good harvest, and there was something to do with the Native Americans during settlement times - also, I believe the Puritans made it last for three days in honour of their extremely strict and I believe to be horribly insane religion. To put what it feels like in the minds of our European friends reading this, Thanksgiving is like a big Christmas feast, but without the paper snowflakes, snow, white themed everything, Christmas carols, and pretty much replace all of that with warm colours like autumn leaves, turkey themed things, toddlers painting hand turkeys, and everything is in some shade of red and orange. Popular foods are turkeys and apples and pumpkins in any shape or form (dear freaking god, I can't wait until I get my pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie and apple pie, please, whatever holy power is up above, give me my pie).**_

_**Europe and the Americas still did not have good communication during this time, and keep in mind that many families have been living in the colonies for generations by now. Britain and the colonies don't know a lot of things about each other.**_

**Also, can someone please help me with this horizontal page-split thing going on? For some reason, the horizontal line I've always used to split up sections in chapters vanished into thin air. Does anyone know how to get it back?**

**ON ANOTHER NOTE: I have so many PMs at the moment that I'm not going to be responding to the majority of them, especially if they're long. Don't get me wrong, I love long messages, but with all that's going on, I just can't make time for 42 many-pages-long-each messages. I've also decided to tone down the amount of history I'm putting into this thing, so unless the events can be explained to me simply, I'm going to be skipping over a lot of detailed historical events. It literally puts a pain in my heart, but at the moment the next few years of this story's time line is going to be completely blank area for me. I have no idea what happens in the next few years before the Boston Massacre - or, I do, but I probably forgot due to everything going on, and I have no time at all to research. Updates from now on will range from once a week to once a month. I apologise again and again!**

**I love you all for being so patient with me, and I hope to everything out there that you're all still with me. Thank you and see you in the reviews section!**


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